


Veils of Morning

by rhiannon15900



Category: The Professionals
Genre: A/U, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-20 22:13:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 39,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10671804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhiannon15900/pseuds/rhiannon15900
Summary: Doyle, an artist, finds a bewildered soldier on the street and takes him home with him.





	Veils of Morning

**Author's Note:**

> This story is by the author Rhiannon, of Larton fame, who isn't on line; it's posted with her enthusiastic consent.
> 
> I'll pass on any comments/kudos to her.
> 
> Please let me know if you spot any typos, so I can correct them.  
> Hgdoghouse

VEILS OF MORNING  
Rhiannon

 

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,  
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;  
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,  
And evening full of the linnet's wings.  
Yeats: The Lake Isle of Innisfree 

 

Armistice Day, November 11th 1918

Raymond Doyle, ex-war artist, walked unsteadily from the Brewer's Arms. In spite of all his efforts he was still unable to feel part of the intoxicated crowd about him, who were drunk on happiness and relief as much as ale. They were rejoicing for the sons, brothers, husbands, fathers and lovers who would soon be back amongst them - safe. All day he'd been shown photographs: "That's my boy, my brother, my man. He'll be home now."

Only his man wouldn't be, ever. Just another cross among the million others.

So it was peace at last, but that didn't blot out the things he had seen in the past bitter years.

Oh, stop whining, he told himself savagely. He felt in his pockets. Damn! He was out of cigarettes again. To hell with his doctor's orders. What did it matter anyway!

He looked round for a tobacconist. There was one on the corner.

As he entered he sensed the atmosphere. The woman behind the counter, her face stiff with fright and a soldier in a greatcoat standing in front of her, his speech slurred.

Drunk, probably, Doyle thought. Then he listened to the slurred words.

The woman suddenly screamed "Get out! You're from the asylum. I'll call my husband."

Doyle moved over and took the man's arm. "It's all right, I'll take care of him."

The soldier turned and a pair of desperate blue eyes looked into his.

"Ben!" said Doyle, dazed for a moment. "Come on, we'll go somewhere else. Please, Ben, it's all right, come with me."

The soldier gazed at him, then let Doyle lead him outside.

"I'm not mad," he stammered finally. "Trouble speaking."

"Yes, I know," said Doyle.

Shell-shock, he'd seen a lot of it. Stupid old cow! "Don't you worry. I'll take you back to the hospital."

The soldier pulled away. "No. I'm going home. Not back there." He looked around.

God, thought Doyle. He hasn't any idea where he is, poor bastard.

"Look, come home with me and have something to eat. You'll feel better after a meal."

I must be mad, he thought to himself. It's not like taking a kitten home.

It began to rain. The soldier nodded briskly and walked beside him.

"It's a long way," Doyle warned him, half hoping his encumbrance would decide to go back himself, but the soldier merely walked on. By the time they reached the cottage the rain had settled to a steady downpour.

Doyle, cursing vigorously, led the way in and fumbled for matches.

"I bet the bloody fire's gone out. Just as well I left some wood in."

To his relief the fire was still smouldering and with the addition of some more wood began to glow. He carefully placed the kettle in position, then pulled off his soaked coat, coughing a little.

"Take your coat off," he ordered. "The towel's behind the door. Dry yourself off a bit. Then we can have some tea."

The soldier obeyed him, gazing round the room with interest before he went over to look at the pictures stacked against the wall.

"I've been staying here for the summer," said Doyle. "I'll be going back to London soon. I have a better place there - well, more room, anyway," he remarked, moving a bucket to catch the drips coming through the ceiling. "The roof's gone there. The rest is dry enough. I'd better see if the soup is still all right."

He sniffed at a pan. "Yeah, it should be all right if I boil it up again. There's bread in the crock there. The knife's in the drawer. There should be enough for both of us."

The soldier took out the bread knife. "You're not afraid of me," he said.

"I don't give a damn," said Doyle. "Hurry up with that bread. The soup will be ready soon."

The soldier nodded, hacked off a lump of bread and passed the loaf and knife over. They ate in silence, Doyle watching his companion.

"You were very hungry," he remarked.

He watched the soldier nod at the same time he realised all the drink he had consumed was beginning to take effect.

"There's a mattress in that corner. I'm going to bed now. The bog is at the end of the garden. All right?"

He received another nod.

Doyle climbed the narrow staircase and fell onto his bed.

oOo

When Doyle awoke - with a blinding headache - he smelt bacon frying and made his way carefully downstairs. The soldier was cooking with great concentration.

Doyle stared at him for a moment, then began to remember events of the previous day. Now, what was he going to do about -

He suddenly felt very unwell and dashed into the garden. He came back looking distinctly paler, and looked around the room.

"You've been tidying up. I don't like my stuff being touched."

The soldier passed him a mug of tea and a plate of bacon and egg, looking at him hopefully.

Doyle began to feel hungry after all and started to eat slowly.

"Not bad. You must have been up early."

The soldier pointed at the clock.

"Oh! That late, is it? I must have tied one on last night." Doyle took a mouthful of tea. "That's better." He finished as much as he could of his meal, then sat back to study his companion.

No, he wasn't really like Ben at all. He wasn't as tall, was heavier and his eyes were a lot darker too. So was his hair, now he could see it. Ben's had been more -

Doyle stopped himself remembering. His overnight guest seemed to be making himself at home. He'd have to put a stop to that.

"Look, what's your name?" he asked.

"Ben," said the soldier. He gave Doyle another hopeful look.

"No, that's what I called you. I had to call you something. What's your real name?"

There was a silence.

"I don't know," said the soldier. "They call me Smith. I can't remember."

"Nothing at all?" Doyle asked, horrified.

"Nothing much. Bits. I don't know who I am."

"Well, I'll call you Smith - or Bill. Which would you prefer?"

The soldier wrinkled his brow. "Smith," he said finally.

"That's settled then," said Doyle. "Look, Smith, I work till midday, then make me some more tea, will you?"

Smith nodded.

Doyle settled to his painting and was soon lost to his work, only surfacing when a mug of tea was placed before him.

"I said midday. Oh, it is." He glanced out into the yard. "You've been busy. It hasn't been like that since I've been here. God, the job's being a bitch this morning. I know what I want but I can't get it."

Smith nodded.

"Look, I'm only staying here for a few more weeks. It gets too bloody cold up here in the north. You ought to go back. I can't take you to London with me, you need proper care."

Smith's face fell, then he got up and began to pull on his greatcoat.

"Going home," he said. "Not back there."

"You don't know where home is," said Doyle.

"I'll find it," said Smith. He moved to the doorway.

"Come back here! And take that coat off! I'm never any good when I've got a hangover. Is there any more tea left?"

Smith looked at him, then slowly took his coat off and poured out more tea.

Doyle eyed him thoughtfully. "We'll have to find you something else to wear. I think you're much of a size - bigger than me, anyway." He went to a trunk in the corner and pulled out some clothes. "Here you are. Shirt, pants...your greatcoat will do. I'll take the hospital patch off. You see a lot of them around London. And you'll need it in the winter."

"Whose?" asked the soldier, looking at the clothes. "Won't he - ?"

"He won't be back," said Doyle. "Go on, the moths will get them if you don't wear them."

Smith looked at the clothes. A part of his mind recognised the good cut; they were expensive. He wondered how he knew that. He began to change.

Doyle watched him. I shouldn't be doing this, he thought, but it could have been you, Ben. I couldn't have stood leaving you locked up in one of those places. You wouldn't mind about the clothes. Perhaps I can find him something to do about the place in London. The rent's paid for two months more here. I just have to raise the train fare...

oOo

In spite of his misgivings, Doyle found Smith fitted well into his daily life. He was unobtrusive about the place, he didn't disturb him when he was working and he listened when Doyle felt like talking (usually when his work wasn't going well and he needed someone to listen while he complained). Doyle did occasionally think this couldn't be much fun for Smith, but he seemed happy enough listening and making the odd soothing mumble. While speech was still difficult he had begun to regain his confidence and seemed content to stay.

Then Doyle noticed things had begun to change, starting with the daily pan of 'soup'. This started well with a beef bone and vegetables and as the week progressed was constantly reheated with the odd addition, so it tended to outlive both flavour and nourishment. This was varied with bread and dripping, or the odd slab of plain bread when money became really tight. 

On the fourth day he noticed Smith looking into the pan with disgust but gave it no thought until he found him expertly skinning a rabbit in the yard. It made a welcome addition. He made no comment but when eggs appeared for breakfast at a particularly difficult time he decided to make enquires as to their origins.

"Smith," he began, "that rabbit... I expect you poached it, and no one will mind, but taking eggs is another matter. You could get into trouble."

Smith looked startled. "I did odd jobs for people down the lane," he said. "They paid me in eggs, cabbages and onions."

Doyle realised he hadn't considered the onions. "Potatoes?" he queried.

"Yes," said Smith.

Doyle looked round, realising the cottage had never been so tidy - apart from his out-of-bounds work section.

Smith, he found on questioning him, believed in an ordered way of life and good, regular meals. This brought on their first 'disagreement'. He'd waved food aside for some ten hours, wrapped up in his current painting, which was going well. Then he'd found himself being forcibly pushed into a chair and a spoon placed in his hand, while Smith glowered at him across a bowl of stew. He had started to complain at the sheer bloody nerve of it when he'd looked at his burly 'nanny', who was definitely in need of a shave. He'd begun to chuckle, Smith had grinned back at him and Doyle had eaten his meal.

"That was good," he remarked, and allowed himself to be chivvied off to bed.

oOo

The next morning Doyle sat watching Smith, who was carefully soldering a pan.

"You can do pretty well anything, can't you," he remarked. "Mend pans, sole boots, put chains back on bikes, snare rabbits - and skin 'em! You've been making yourself very useful. I bet if we were here next year you'd have that jungle out there growing vegetables by the ton."

Smith nodded vigorously. "I like working with my hands." He looked the pan over, put it down and picked up another.

"They can't all be ours," said Doyle. "What are you getting for them?"

"More potatoes, some eggs, and a cake from Mrs Riley. Plum cake," said Smith.

Doyle grinned. "I'm not worried about eating with you around."

"You don't eat enough," said Smith. "You're too thin."

Doyle ignored that. "I wonder what you did before the army. You're not from around here, or London, where I come from. You sound northern to me. You can do all these things but you don't sound like a cobbler or a tinsmith. You don't remember anything at all?"

Smith considered for a moment. "Bits. I know how to do these things but not who taught me. I think my parents are dead. I can't remember any family. Sometimes I almost remember things, then it goes again. People would come to the hospital and I kept thinking that this time it will be someone who can tell me who I am but it never was. I couldn't take it any longer. They looked so...disappointed. Kind, some of them, too. Good people. That's why I left."

Doyle nodded. "I understand. In a way it's easier knowing they won't come back than having them be forever just - missing."

Smith looked at him. 

Doyle shook himself. "We'll be going to London soon. I'm just waiting for some money from my dealer, who has made some sales for me. Not big prices, but we'll have enough to get home to London. And have some money to keep us going for a while. It'll be warmer there, too. It gets damn cold up here."

Smith looked round anxiously. "I've liked it up here," he said.

"You'll like it even more in London," said Doyle. "There'll be plenty for you to do there. They're a pretty ramshackle lot, with no idea how to look after themselves. Not like me."

Smith gave him a look of pure astonishment but didn't comment.

The money arrived a few days later, greeted with some relief by Doyle because the landlord was pressing for his rent. Leaving Smith 'in charge' he set off to the town to find them both some winter clothes.

 

Smith pottered about happily. The postman knocked on the door.

"Registered letter. Sign here, please."

Smith did, feeling again that the name he was using was wrong. He sighed and put the letter on the table, then went back to making dinner.

Doyle arrived soon after.

"I think I've got all we'll need. Jersey for you and some underwear. Your coat will be fine. I had to get myself some new boots, the cobbler said these won't mend any more." He stopped when he noticed the letter.

"What's this?" He opened it, took out some notes, put them on the table and began to read the letter with them, before he turned and left the room.

Smith waited a moment then followed him. He went up the stairs quietly. Doyle was sitting on his bed, rocking with grief. 

Smith silently went back downstairs and picked up the letter.

'We enclose the sum of ----- due to you on the death of Lt. Benjamin ----. As his beneficiary...'

He must have put Ray down as his next of kin, thought Smith, like I did. Who did...? For a moment he almost saw the name, then it went.

Ray eventually came downstairs, picked up the money and the letter and flung them in the fire. 

Smith stared at him.

"I'm going out," said Doyle. "Don't wait up for me."

Smith, who had managed to drag some of the money out of the fire, went over and caught his arm. "Ray, please!

Doyle shook him off. "I'll be back. Just leave me alone."

Smith let go.

oOo

It was almost morning when Doyle returned, very drunk indeed.

He continued to drink over the next few days, hardly eating and working furiously.

Smith was wakened one morning by the sound of Doyle gasping for breath. He was in his room, hanging on to the bedside. He pointed to some camphor candles by the bed and Smith hurriedly lit one, then held him. It was important to calm Ray down, he remembered that much. Asthma, that's what it was. Get Ray calm and then it would be easier.

Slowly the choking spasms eased.

When he was sure Ray was improving, he helped him into bed, fetched a blanket and wrapped him in it, propping him up on an extra pillow. Doyle was now shaking with shock and looked pale and exhausted.

"Bad one," he said. "You knew what to do."

Smith nodded. "Asthma. I've seen it before."

"Get me a brandy," said Doyle.

"No!" said Smith. "You'll have some tea." He was unmoved by Doyle's scowl.

Doyle gave in and drank the tea slowly then lay back, closing his eyes.

Smith took his hand. "I'll stay till you're asleep."

Doyle gave a faint smile, squeezed his hand, then slowly fell asleep.

oOo

To Smith's relief Doyle stopped drinking and went on with his work.

"Do you mind if I paint you, Smith?" he asked one evening.

"No," said Smith, "but why would you want to?"

"Well I have to paint rich philistines and their vacant children to make money to do my real work. I'd like to paint you for a change. You just keep working and I'll make notes."

Smith became used to him sketching away, then agreed to pose for a 'real' portrait. He had objected at first at being distracted from his daily tasks but gave in when he realised how much Doyle wanted to paint him.

Ray finished the portrait as they were packing his few possessions for the return to London. He sat back and looked at his work critically.

"Not bad. It's not right yet, but it's the best I've done of you so far. Do you know, Smith, you're a very good-looking fellow!"

Smith gave a snort of derision.

"No, I mean it. Come and look for yourself."

Smith walked over and gazed at the portrait, then shook his head.

"Funny eyebrows," he remarked. He touched Doyle's face gently. "You're the good-looking one."

"You're hopeless," said Doyle. "Come on, let's finish the packing. You'll like London - you'll have a proper bed there for a start."

"I was very happy here," said Smith, looking around.

"You'll be even happier in London. They won't give you a moment's peace when they find out you're handy with tools. Come on!"

oOo

Their journey back to London was uneventful. Smith took firm charge of the luggage and refused to share the burden.

"Here we are," said Doyle. They'd stopped at a gaunt old house. As they entered the hallway the smell of turpentine, boiled cabbage, damp, and someone frying fish enveloped them.

There was a shout of welcome from the stairs and a tall, boisterous girl hurtled down and hugged Doyle with enthusiasm.

"Ray! We thought you were never coming back. How's the work going? Did you hear about Edwin? He decided to end it all, stuck his head in the oven, changed his mind, then struck a match. The landlord says he's suing him when he comes out of hospital. Who's your handsome friend?"

She looked at Smith with appreciation.

"Smith," said Ray, "this is Ethel. Ethel, this is Smith. Now, has anyone made tea? We are cold, fed up and need food. And I want to look at my studio and find out what you pirates have nicked while I've been away. Come on, Smith."

Doyle led the way upstairs. Ethel followed them, muttering about a party. Smith looked about bemused, as people put their heads out of doors and offered greetings, or news - generally of a disturbing nature.

"Here we are," said Doyle, unlocking a door. "This is it, Smith," he said with pride.

Smith looked round with interest. It was a large, airy room, with screens at intervals. A skylight let in maximum light and, from the breeze down his neck, he deduced a considerable amount of draught as well. He put it down on his mental list of 'things to do'.

"Kitchen's here," said Doyle, "bed's over there. Geyser, tub again I'm afraid, but at least we don't have to boil the water over a fire. The bog's two floors down. Right, let's get the place warmed up. Fred, go and get some beer in."

"Kettle's on," yelled Ethel. "The others will be here with food and wine shortly. Then we can tell you all the news. Did you hear about Maisie?"

Smith wandered bemused through the noisy crowd that gathered, clutching a drink someone had pressed into his hand. Ray seemed happy, glad to be back with his friends. Feeling lost, Smith wandered into the kitchen. He'd find something to do.

 

"Who's your dark, handsome friend?" asked Geoff. "He's very like Ben, isn't he? Tell me, are you - "

"No, we are not and he isn't," said Doyle savagely. "Keep your bloody remarks to yourself!"

"You haven't change," said Geoff. "You've still got a lousy temper. I don't know how..." He hurriedly slipped back into the crowd.

Doyle looking round, decided he'd better find Smith and see if he was all right. He found him in the kitchen, patiently dealing with drunken attempts to interfere with the cooking - the original chef having decided to take a nap in the corner.

"All out," yelled Doyle, "or no one gets fed. Ethel, take your arms from around his neck, he's got work to do. Come on, leave him alone!"

"Spoilsport," moaned Ethel. "He's lovely." She planted a smacking kiss on Smith's cheek and unwound herself.

"Out!" yelled Doyle. 

He turned to Smith, who was looking extremely startled. 

"Never mind Ethel, she's always a handful when she gets soused. Are the potatoes ready yet?"

"Yes." Smith passed one over. 

Doyle grabbed it, then did a quick juggling act. "It's bloody hot," he complained.

"Naturally." An eyebrow went up.

"I think I liked you before you got funny," said Doyle. "Grab yourself some before the locusts swarm in."

 

It was extremely late when they persuaded the last guest to leave.

"Good party," said Doyle. "They've warmed the place up, too. I'd better get to bed before I fall over. Good thing you took over in the kitchen. Night, Smith."

Smith looked round. Ray had said he'd have a bed. He checked behind all the screens but couldn't find another bed.

"Ray, something's missing."

Doyle wandered over, minus his boots, and yawning. "What?"

"A bed," said Smith.

Doyle swore. "I hadn't noticed. Bloody thieves, they'd pinch anything. We'll get it back tomorrow. Till then you'll have to share with me, you'll never manage on that couch."

Smith followed him.

"Now, you take the side by the window. That'll soak up the draught before it gets to me," said Doyle. "Don't take your clothes off! You'll bloody freeze. Except your boots, I'm not having them in bed with me."

Smith added the window to his list.

In spite of the cold Doyle fell asleep almost immediately. Smith lay awake a while, thinking. He was sure he'd never met anyone like Doyle's friends. There were plenty of jobs to do, he liked that, it stopped you from worrying too much about not remembering. Ray needed looking after, too. He was too thin and pale. Someone once said 'You've got a lot of sheepdog in you'. Who was that?

Ray gave a sudden shiver and huddled closer. Smith pulled him nearer, tucked an arm around him and fell asleep.

oOo

Next morning they reclaimed the spare bed. The remark "Didn't think you'd need two!" drew a furious glare from Doyle and incomprehension from Smith.

Doyle collected some paintings to take to his dealer, while Ethel took Smith on a tour of the neighbourhood, including the local chandler for putty and nails; he arranged to pick up the glass later.

The pavements were full of bustling crowds, the streets thronged with traffic. It didn't seem strange to him so he supposed he'd been somewhere like this in the past. Ethel pointed out the best pawn shop, and second-hand stall, in the street market. He noticed she stopped occasionally to take a photograph.

"Now this," she said, "is the best Pie and Eel shop in the area, and it's time to eat. I need to take some pictures here. Colourful scenes of low-down London life, they said."

Smith looked with suspicion at his plateful; he found the greenish gravy off-putting.

"You haven't had pie and eel before?" asked Ethel. "Go on, it's great stuff. A big plateful keeps you going for hours. Just mush your mashed potato in the gravy and don't think about the look of it."

Smith took a tentative fork full. She was right, it was good - and hot - and he realised he was very hungry.

After talking to the proprietor and customers Ethel took some pictures, telling Smith to keep eating and not look at her.

"Good. That's it for the moment. I must get to the market before the light goes. I'll show you the best vegetable stalls, and the safe ones for meat that won't be too elderly when they sell it off."

After the market they began to make their way back to the studio.

"And here is our pub, the Fox and Feathers. The only one we haven't been asked to leave yet, collectively or singly, and it's open. Care for a quick half?"

Smith looked at her. "I'm paying," he said firmly.

"You'll have to," said Ethel. "Mad Elsie won't serve me. I'll sit over there and try to look inoffensive."

Smith brought their drinks over, watching as Ethel checked her camera.

"Not a bad day," she remarked.

"Do you make a living at it?" Smith asked curiously.

"Depends. Sometimes the rent is paid in advance, I've got plenty of film and trips to the West End for meals and the theatre. Other times it's see how long you can last on bread and dripping and how much we can raise on mother's diamond brooch again. At the moment I'm doing London street life for a posh magazine. Cheerful cockneys and pearlies, jellied eels, Hampstead Heath - that sort of thing. But no rickety children, mind, or anything that might upset our readers! If they like it then I'll get well paid and can do some other work of my own. I'm doing what I want, that's what matters."

"Where do you come from, Ethel? You're not from London."

"No, I'm a country girl from Hereford. My father is a clergyman. The dear old boy's still living in the eighteenth century. He's devoted to his parish and his books. My brother was a keen amateur photographer. He needed an assistant so he taught me. Then - Well, he was killed in the war and I'd always wanted to be a photographer after helping him. Father's sister, my Aunt Harriet, lives with him, so I knew he'd be all right. He never tried to stop me, bless him. I go home every now and then to unwind and get a little peace. Nothing much ever happens in Hereford. So there you are, the potted biography of E. M. Carmichael. Now, what of you, Smith?" 

"Not much I can tell you. Ray found me wandering on Armistice night. I had been a patient at the hospital there - shell-shock, I think. I didn't want to go back there. No one knew who I was. I get flashes of memory but they don't stay."

Ethel looked at her watch. "We'd better get back. I hope Ray's sold some pictures. I'll introduce you to the others tomorrow."

 

Doyle had not returned when they got back, so Smith set to and mended the window, then started dinner. He was just tasting it with approval when Doyle came in, shaking the rain off and dumping some fresh canvas in a corner.

"It's gone bloody cold," he remarked, warming his hands at the fire.

"I'm just dishing up," said Smith. "Ethel took me to the market and I got some food in. I've mended the window, it should be warmer for you tonight."

Doyle, dipping his bread in his stew with enthusiasm, looked up. "Strewth! That's been broken since I've been here. Thought I was missing a draught! This is good," he added indistinctly with his mouth full.

"I need to borrow a ladder to see to the skylight," said Smith. "Is there one?"

"Dunno. We'll ask Dave on the bottom floor - the one who smells of wet clay and gin. We'll go down and ask him later. I've made some sales, enough to keep us going. I've arranged for a bag of coal to be delivered tomorrow. You'd better lurk round the front door waiting for it, otherwise someone will start helping themselves to it. I'd better go and see Dave right after we've eaten," Doyle added. "He usually gets his money from home today. He'll be incapable for a couple of days if he gets to the pub first."

They went downstairs.

Doyle banged on the door of Studio 2. It opened a crack.

"Oh, it's you, Ray. Money's late this month and I was afraid it was Dracula. Come in."

Smith looked round with interest then, seeing the potter's wheel, walked over to it. He began to work the treadle. 

Ray saw what he was doing. "Smith?"

"Can I try something?" Smith asked.

Dave shrugged. "Be my guest. You can't do any harm. Have you ever worked one before?"

"I don't know," said Smith. "Need some more water." He filled the trough and then began to work some clay. He didn't notice Ray and Dave had moved over to watch.

"Sorry I missed the party, Ray," Dave said. "How was Yorkshire?" Then he stopped and watched Smith who, after a few false starts, was beginning to work the clay and wheel properly. They watched a bowl take shape.

Smith stopped the wheel and looked at them. "I must have seen it done somewhere," he said.

"No," said Dave, "someone taught you to do that. You knew just how it was done, once you'd remembered properly. Where did you learn?"

"I don't know. I remember I liked to watch it being done. I kept asking if someone would show me, but it was a much bigger place." He looked round. "Damn! I wish I could remember."

"Never mind," said Doyle, "you're improving all the time. Just be patient. Dave says there's a ladder in the back yard. We'll take it up now. I need to go out early tomorrow, I want to do some sketching down by the river."

"I'll get the skylight done then," said Smith. "A couple of other things, too."

"I told you you'd like it here," said Doyle.

oOo

A month later Ethel appeared at the door. "Ray, have you any cash? There's a man downstairs demanding money with menaces. If you've got ten bob it'll save me hocking the camera again. And I need it for a job at the weekend."

Doyle searched through his pockets. "Six shillings, best I can do."

"That's fine. Geoff can let me have the rest, I think. Back in a moment." She hurried away.

Doyle shivered and put the kettle on. It would soon be Christmas.

Ethel came back in. "Thank goodness. If I can just sell this batch of pictures I'll be able to travel in style in train."

"Home for Christmas?" Doyle asked.

"Yes. I know father likes to see me then. I'll be back for the New Year. Where's Smith?"

"Picking up some wood for frames. He won't be long."

"He's made a big difference to here. This place used to be a pigsty. You're looking better too. He keeps a check on your drinking, doesn't he? Are you sleeping with him?

"None of your business," said Doyle.

"I just want to know if he's spoken for. He'd make a nice steady fellow, but if you're interested..."

"He isn't your type," said Doyle. "You like them pretty and stupid. Smith may look nice but he isn't stupid. Alex gone, has he?"

"Yes," said Ethel. "Another mistake. I thought he looked a bit like Thomas and that he'd be like him, but he wasn't. Smith looks a bit like Ben. That isn't why you keep him around, is it, Ray? Not fair to him if it is."

"No, it isn't," said Ray with irritation. "And the resemblance is only superficial. He's got nowhere else to go. And I don't need anyone to remind me. I'm not looking for a second-hand lover."

"Ray," said Ethel, "please don't shut yourself off from everyone else. I understand that you don't want to get hurt again. I know I keep looking for Thomas Vaughan in every pretty boy I meet, and it's always a disappointment, but it helps keep the cold away. I think Smith is becoming very fond of you, and I wouldn't want either of you to get hurt. Well, I'd better think of selling these pictures, then I can pack and away. I'm looking forward to a cockroach-free bed!"

She gave Doyle a quick hug. "Now, look after yourself."

She was just leaving when Smith arrived, laden down with wood of varying lengths.

Doyle got to his feet. "Good, we can get some frames made now. Know anything about making picture frames, Smith?"

"No," said Smith with conviction.

"There's a book over there," said Doyle vaguely, "and tools. I'm no good at it myself."

"Ray, honestly!" said Ethel. "Come on, Smith, I'll explain it to you."

oOo

Doyle looked at the finished product with delight. 

"That's fine. You'll have half the sods in the building coming to you for frames. Now, see they pay you for them. I'll work out a fair price. You're very good with your hands. All I ever learnt to do was paint."

Smith was curious about that. He knew Doyle could barely read and write - a lack of schooling, he supposed, because Ray was definitely bright enough.

"Somebody in your family painted then?" he asked.

"Hell, no," said Doyle. "Someone saw me sketching and taught me a little. He saw I had a talent that way and paid for me to come to London to the art school. His son was with me - a music student."

He sat back and smiled reminiscently. "We thought we knew it all, then. Two students, spinning out our allowances, trudging round all the galleries and concerts together, staying up all night having arguments. I was very intolerant in those days - about other painters. Thought I knew the lot. Ben now, he was different."

He stopped and went over to look at his current painting. "It's a funny thing, Smith - you can do all these things but you don't strike me as someone who's worked at them for a living. I should have been trying to find out who you are. I've been taking advantage of you here."

"No!" said Smith. He sounded frightened. "I know there isn't anyone looking for me. I don't want to leave here to be lost again." He began to shake.

"Hey." Doyle went over and held him. "Come on, it's all right. I'd like you to stay, I just thought it wasn't fair on you. You can stay as long as you like." The shaking went on. "Smith, come and sit down. What's the matter?"

Smith calmed down a little. "I don't know. I just felt lost again. Thought I'd have to leave and start looking again."

"I'm sorry," said Doyle. "I should talk to you more, but you're no great chatterer. I like that. Fancy a drink? We've got a bottle of whisky in."

Smith nodded. "From Dave?"

"Yes, for tiding him over last month. He got some extra money from home. He's just wondering if he ought to pack it all up. Anyway, he's seeing his family this Christmas, then he'll decide. This is our Christmas present."

"Are you going home - for Christmas, Ray?"

Doyle looked at him. "The last thing my family would want at Christmas would be me. That would really put the mockers on the festive season. Naw! We'll have a good time here. Usually do well at Christmas. Leave off getting a bird until Christmas morning, then you'll pick up one cheap at the market - if you're up early enough. Let's hope your talents run to cooking it. Ethel does one for us sometimes, but she's away this year."

"I can read it up," said Smith confidently. "I bought a cookery book last week." He looked round. "What are we going to cook the bird in?"

"The bakehouse down the road will do it for us. They don't charge much. Downstairs tried one in a kiln one year. Bloody near poisoned themselves. The bakehouse will do a bun-loaf for you too, if you fancy making one."

Smith looked rather interested in that idea as Doyle went back to work.

oOo

'Twas the night before Christmas...

Doyle sniffed loudly and clear his throat. There was no response.

"Smells very appetising," he remarked. "Listen, you mean sod, can't you spare a drop? You don't need to put all that in, do you? Criminal, that's what it is, wasting it on a bun-loaf. Get away with murder, you do. Can just see you in the Fox and Feathers, looking at Mad Elsie with those big blue eyes like a lost dog, so she fills up your little bottle for you and doesn't even charge you. Never happens to me."

"That's because you make trouble when you're in there," said Smith. "You start fights!" He carefully stirred more rum into his bun-loaf mixture, eyes glued to the cookery book. "That should be enough." He passed the rest of the rum over. "Here, stop moaning."

"Thanks. I don't start fights, people start 'em with me - I just keep 'em going."

Smith gave him what could be called an 'old-fashioned' look and went back to stirring the mixture.

"That's done," Smith said, looking at the tin containing the bun-loaf. "I'll take it down the bakehouse in a moment."

"Good thing I found you," said Doyle. "Last year I lived on bread, dripping and whisky till the New Year."

Smith visibly shuddered.

"Any chestnuts left?" Doyle inquired.

Smith tossed a bag over. "And this time prick 'em, he commanded. "It was like the Western Front in here last night, shooting all over the place."

Doyle balanced a row of chestnuts on the front of the grate. "It's nice being able to afford a big fire. I had to sling a chair on last year. It didn't burn well either, and the horsehair stuffing smelt awful."

Smith shook his head. "I had no idea life among the artists was so exciting."

"Huh!" said Doyle. "Sit down. I'll make some tea."

"I'll just get the bun-loaf down. Be back in a minute."

Smith soon returned. "It's getting really cold! They said I could collect it in the morning."

oOo

When Doyle awoke early, cursing the numerous bells that were all ringing merrily, Smith had already left. A note lay on the table next to a large, spicy-smelling bun-loaf: 'Gone for the turkey' it said. 'Dave says to see you in the pub at eleven. Merry Christmas, Smith.'

 

Doyle pushed his way to the bar in the Fox and Feathers. Dave glanced at him.

"Here, wrap yourself around that." He passed over a brimming pint. "Where's Smith?"

"He'll be here in a minute. He's gone to get our bird from the bakehouse. You're invited with Fred. Bring a bottle. Hell, here comes trouble!"

A large, bearded man came over.

"Well, little Ray," he remarked. "Where's the boyfriend? Like 'em big, don't you!" He drew Doyle into a rough embrace, which was not appreciated. Then he staggered back, clutching himself and swearing, before he lunged.

Smith grabbed Doyle to one side and laid out his attacker.

Doyle gazed at him open-mouthed. Smith normally went out of his way to avoid standing on a worm!

"Bloody hell!" he said.

As Smith showed signs of wanting to continue taking the bearded one apart, a group hurriedly dragged him outside, with Mad Elsie informing them he would not be re-admitted, and hoping Mr Smith hadn't hurt his hand.

"Who was that?" asked Smith with casual interest.

"Webster. He sculpts. Lousy work. Sees himself as a primeval force. He has the ladies falling over themselves to do for him. We don't get on. I could have dealt with him myself, you know," Doyle added aggressively.

There was a snort from Smith. "He's a foot taller and three stone heavier, he'd have murdered you. Come on, dinner's ready."

Doyle followed him out. Smith's combativeness on his behalf, coupled with his possessive behaviour confirmed what he had begun to suspect.

And I don't want to get involved with him that way. I like him, but - Oh hell! Be a kindness if he fancies me. Like Ethel says, it helps to keep the cold away. Just don't get serious about him. He'll remember one day and walk out.

Who are you kidding? You need him, too. Sorry, Ben, it won't be like it was with you, but I need someone to care for me a little. It's not love, just comfort!

 

"That," said Doyle, carefully scraping the last shreds of meat from his turkey bone, "was really good."

There was a murmur of agreement from the others.

"Still some wine left," said Dave."Here, Smith, fill your glass up. Coming to the party downstairs tonight, Ray? You're both invited."

"No. Too comfortable here. Just see no one falls downstairs at 4 a.m. this year, will you?"

"We'd better be off. Come on, Fred. Thanks for the dinner."

Doyle stretched, smiling. "Didn't want to go to the party, did you, Smith?"

Smith shook his head, smiling, then went to the cupboard and brought out a large bag.

"Merry Christmas!" He tossed it to Doyle, who drew out a large knitted sweater. "One of Ethel's mates knitted it up for me after I mended her stove."

Doyle tried it on. "Ah, that's better! This will keep the cold out. If you look under your bed, I've got a few more tools for you. You can get more things done now."

"Good," said Smith. "Pity I never learnt to knit too."

"Idiot," said Doyle. "Come on, help me finish the wine."

They settled on the rug by the fire. Smith was silent for a while.

"Ray, the man whose clothes I'm wearing - he was a friend of yours, wasn't he?"

"Yes. He was killed in the war."

"Was he Ben, the name you called me?"

"I thought you were him for a moment, even though I knew he was dead. We lived together, here and in Yorkshire. He didn't need to go in the army, he had a bad leg from a riding accident, but when his eldest brother was killed he said he had to go. He only lasted a month in France. Bloody waste. They told you he was my lover?"

"Yes," said Smith. "Asked me if I was free. I didn't understand at first."

"Oh, hell," said Doyle. "Just tell 'em no, you're not interested and they'll leave you alone. Especially after you put Webster out like that!" His grin faded. "Smith, does it upset you, knowing I had a male lover?"

"No," said Smith. "I'd already guessed there had been someone very close. I just didn't know how much they'd meant to you. Why should it upset me?"

"Dunno," said Ray. "I just had you pegged as a true blue Captain of the Cricket Team, that sort of thing."

Smith though for a moment. "You know, I could have been," he said, before he added solemnly: "Would it change the way you feel about me, Ray?"

Doyle thumped him firmly. "Give over! You having me on?"

"No," said Smith. "I was working round to tell you I'm in love with you. Have been for a while, I think."

Doyle almost choked on his wine. "That's not funny."

"No," said Smith, "it's a very disturbing feeling. I can't remember if I've had it before. I don't think so - but I like it." He smiled at Doyle.

"Smith, what do you mean by being in love with me?"

Smith considered a moment. "I want to look after you, stay with you, fight tigers with you - and go to bed with you."

"Look," said Doyle, "apart from the fact you have no idea if you've been in love before, never mind gone to bed with anyone, so you can't know what it's like. You could just be feeling grateful to me for taking you on - and I don't need that."

"Rubbish!" said Smith, shaking his head. "I don't feel grateful at all. You need me to keep you out of trouble. I like being needed," he added.

"I see," said Ray.

"The only thing with having no memory of being in love before ," Smith went on with candour, "is that you may have to prompt me." He looked at Doyle hopefully, who began to chuckle.

"Oh, Smith, you're the best thing that's happened to me in a long time, but I'm not in love with you. I'll sleep with you, but no ties you understand. Can you accept that?"

"Yes," said Smith. "I can wait till you're ready."

There was a loud knocking on the door.

"Ray, the sink's blocked up. Can Smith come down?"

"No, he can't," yelled Doyle.

"Yes, he can," said Smith. He reached over to Doyle, kissed him gently and went out.

 

He returned some forty-seven minutes later, with his shirt soaked and very dirty.

Doyle looked at him. "What on earth - ?"

"Paint had clogged up the pipe," said Smith. "I had a hell of a job getting the trap off." He seemed to be glued to the wall by the door. "They said have a drink for doing the job, it's Christmas. Then we had one for New Year, and then for Fred's birthday, and another for the King, and - " he paused to think - "old times' sake, then - " He swayed.

"I get the picture," said Doyle. "Come on, you're sloshed. Bed!"

"No," said Smith. "The floor keeps moving." He looked anxious.

"Yes, I know," said Doyle. "It does that with me, often. Just lean on me, I'll get you to bed. You can seduce me in the morning. You'll never make it tonight."

Smith giggled suddenly. "You're funny," he remarked.

"Yeah, hilarious. Now, let me get your boots off. I'm going to make sure you don't have this much again, you're too heavy for me to heave about. You won't think it's so damn funny in the morning, believe me!" He finally managed to get Smith to the bed and his boots off, but gave up on the rest as (a) Smith was a dead weight, (b)any attempt to undress him brought on gales of merriment, and (c)he wasn't feeling too steady himself, so he settled Smith, then rolled into his own bed.

oOo

Next morning, when Doyle woke, Smith was on his feet, peering into the mirror. "Thought I'd look much worse than this from the way I feel," he remarked wanly.

"Remember much of last night?" Doyle asked.

"No. I can remember starting to unblock a sink."

"You proposed to me," said Doyle.

Smith thought back. "Did you accept?"

"Yeah. Want to change your mind?"

"No. Wish I could take my head off."

"I can imagine. They make their own booze downstairs. Very lethal, some of it is. I'll mix you something."

Smith drank the resulting brew with a shudder. 

Doyle began to whistle as he sized some canvas, then in deference to a hollow moan, stopped.

It was late afternoon before Smith came fully to life.

"I'll never drink again," he said firmly. "I forgot, Ray. Dave gave us tickets for the music hall, he doesn't want 'em himself. He won them in a raffle. What's it like?"

Doyle looked over. "Never been? Wouldn't know, would you! Come on, then, I could do with an evening out. We don't have to dress up, thank goodness."

 

"They look horrible," said Smith, peering into the newspaper as they walked home.

"Never had a trotter before?" asked Doyle. "You haven't lived! Go on, pick it up, it won't bite."

Smith picked one up gingerly. "It'll probably kick me to death instead," he remarked. "Do you want all those chips? You can have half my trotter," he added hopefully.

"All right, let's have it. Go on."

They walked in silence for a while, apart from the awful sound of Doyle sucking pieces of trotter. When he finally finished, he wiped his hands on his shirt with satisfaction.

"Enjoyed the show, didn't you? I heard you singing along with Florrie. You've got an awful voice. Ever remember being in the music hall before now?"

"No. I've listened to music before. I remember some pieces Ethel has on records."

"Oh, serious stuff. Here we are. Good night, that was."

Smith looked around the room. "If we pull the large bed nearer the fire and put the screens round it would be warmer."

"Not a bad idea," said Doyle. "You wouldn't like to move in with me now, would you?"

"Not the right time," said Smith. "Told you, I'll wait until you're ready."

"No sense in being cold though," said Doyle. "Come on, it'll be warmer together."

oOo

Doyle stood listening to the bells. "New Year, Smith. Any of the whisky left?"

Smith came over with two glasses. "Just enough. 1919. First year of peace."

"It's not going to change anything," said Doyle. "Oh, don't remind me. Happy New Year!"

"It will be," said Smith confidently.

oOo

It was mid-January when Smith, hurrying in out of the snow, almost collided with a laden figure in the hallway.

"Smith!" said Ethel thankfully. "Just the man I need. These bags weigh a ton. There's a meat pie in that one from Aunt Harriet, and a cake. Meat pie should be all right, it was freezing on the train all the way from Hereford. Father paid my fare back, he wanted me to travel in comfort, bless him. How's Ray? You're looking well." She followed him up the stairs.

"Coughing," said Smith. "I need to talk to you about him. Dave's gone home for a while - all his pipes went last week, and we have a huge fire. You're shivering, come on."

"Best offer I've had today," said Ethel as they walked up to the studio.

Doyle, wrapped in an assortment of garments, was smoking and painting, pausing to cough at intervals. He looked over.

"'Lo, Ethel!"

"I'll put the kettle on," said Smith. "You look blue, Ethel."

She began to warm herself. "Get the pie out, Smith, it has to be eaten quickly. Want some, Ray?"

"No. I don't feel hungry."

She looked at him, then went over to Smith, who was in the kitchen. "What's he living on? He looks awful," she asked, concerned.

"Cigarettes and whisky mostly. I'm worried about him. He won't call a doctor, spends most of the night coughing and growls if you suggest he isn't well. He caught a chill New Year and hasn't been able to shake it off. He won't eat and complains if I nag him about it."

"Call the doctor," said Ethel. "Here's his number. Ray's going to have an attack if this goes on. Ben left the number with me, he knew what Ray could be like. He's been told not to smoke. Have you quarrelled?"

"No. He just gets tetchy when his cough keeps him awake. But something is wrong. I know that too. I'll call the doctor, you get some tea."

Smith went out to the telephone and called the doctor, who didn't sound surprised and said he would look in while he was calling on Geoff about his leg.

Smith went back upstairs. He found Doyle sipping a cup of tea and looking very unwell.

"I've called the doctor," said Smith.

"You've no bloody right to call him," said Doyle.

"Shut up! You've kept me awake every bloody night for a fortnight coughing. I've every right to call a doctor, if only to get myself some sleep," Smith yelled back.

"If you don't like it you can bugger off," yelled Doyle. "Oh, damn!" He began to gasp for breath.

Smith got him to his bed and lit one of the camphor candles just as the doctor arrived. He nodded to Smith and opened his bag.

"You've had dealings with asthmatics before then," he remarked.

"Yes," said Smith. "My mother suffered badly - " His eyes widened in surprise. Then he began to follow the doctor's instructions. 

Finally Doyle sank into an exhausted sleep.

"That's the worst attack he's had for a while. Any idea what brought it on?" asked the doctor.

"He caught a chill and couldn't shake it off. He didn't feel like eating."

"Smoking and drinking to make up, I suppose," said the doctor. "I've told him before that has got to stop. Try and talk some sense into him. Worry can bring on attacks too, they say. I'll give you a prescription for the cough. Keep him warm, see he eats sensibly and I'll look in later in the week. Yes, he seems much easier now. Well, goodnight, Mr Smith."

"Goodnight," said Smith. He fetched an extra blanket and tucked it round Doyle.

Ethel came over. "He's a poppet is Dr Riley. He has most of us on the slate. I'll get the prescription, you'll want to stay with Ray."

"Thank you," said Smith. "Yes, I'd rather stay with him."

He sat by Doyle, thinking. So, his mother had suffered from asthma! Perhaps things would start getting clearer now. But he had more important things to worry about.

oOo

Doyle woke once during the night but, reassured, soon drifted off again. Next morning he seemed much better. Smith informed him that a rest in bed, light food and no drinking was to be the norm, and he'd tie him to the bed if necessary - and wash his mouth out with soap and water if he didn't shut up.

Doyle, seeing the gleam in his eye, capitulated.

After a brisk regime of cough medicine, light meals and sleep, all taken under protest, he began to feel much better. Waking up one afternoon, he watched Smith reading by the fire. One of Ethel's books, he supposed. Mad on reading, she was. 

Smith looked up. "How are you feeling this afternoon?"

"Better. I could do with a cup of tea."

"Coming up." Smith brought it over. "We need to have a talk - and don't squirm. You've been trying to pick quarrels with me for weeks and I want to know why. If you want me to leave then tell me and I'll go, but I'm not leaving you, Ray. Not without a damn good reason."

Doyle glared at the ceiling. "I don't see what you get out of this relationship, Smith. Stuck here, looking after me, having to be bloody patient with a bad-tempered pain in the arse..."

"True," said Smith, "but that's my problem. And you missed out foul-mouthed, untidy, quarrelsome, selfish - " He began to count things off on his fingers.

Doyle stared at him open-mouthed.

"You don't look at me through the mists of adoration, do you!" he remarked finally.

"No," said Smith, "that would be stupid. Ray, I think I know why you are trying to push me away. After Ben you're either afraid I'll go off too and you'll be hurt again, or that I'm trying to take his place. Look, I promise I won't leave you, and if you feel we can't have what you and Ben did, well - that's my problem again. But I'd like to stay."

Doyle sniffed, then blew his nose hard. "I'd like you to stay. Just give me some time."

Smith nodded. "Fair enough. But, Ray, don't you ever pull another bloody silly stunt like this again. And you can stop smoking right now! Understand!"

"Yes, sir," said Doyle. "I think Ben would have approved of you."

oOo

With the warmer weather Doyle improved rapidly, while Smith busied himself about the studio. As Doyle had noticed, he could turn his hand to almost anything, and he quickly took the daily running of the studio in hand. He then, after a fierce argument with Doyle, persuaded him to open a bank account, which meant that Mr Fox, their main dealer, paid them by cheque, which went straight into the account and not by cash, a large proportion of which tended to disappear almost immediately across the bar of the Fox and Feathers, or into the pockets of Doyle's numerous indigent colleagues.

"There is nothing amusing in having to spend our time hiding in the entry to dodge Dracula when he comes for the rent," Smith had remarked firmly.

"You said I wasn't to call him that," Doyle said, amused.

"I hadn't seen him then," said Smith. "You can work better if you're not having to dash off to avoid him all the time. And stop looking glum, you've plenty of gin money left."

Doyle grunted. "Like to come and see this one?" He gestured at his work.

Smith waked over and surveyed it. "Raymond, you're almost converting me to modern art."

"I like the 'almost'! Not bad, is it? You're still stuck at 'Bubbles', that's your trouble."

"I like your sort. It's those bodies all peculiar I can't stand."

"'Bodies all peculiar'?" Doyle grinned. "Show me. Paper over there."

"Ray, you know I can't draw. Well, like this."

Doyle looked at the sketch. "That's Picasso, mate. Keep turning them out and you'll make a fortune. Come on. As you're minding the money you can stand me dinner down the road, I'm hungry."

"Not unless you put a tie on, I won't," Smith said firmly.

 

Doyle sipped his wine reflectively. "I thought you were going to say no and give me a lecture on careless spending."

Smith looked up, startled. "I don't sound that mean, do I? Look, Ray, I just don't want you living on bread and scrape for weeks because you've overspent, without a decent fire in the grate."

"No, you're right, and you're not mean. In fact you've been a bit mellow with me lately. Good dinner here; trip on the river last week up to Hampton Court, so I could see some new places to sketch." He stopped and considered. "I'm getting suspicious. I keep thinking you're going to hand me a box of chocolates next. Smith! You've been courting me!"

"That's right," said Smith cheerfully. "What would you like to do next - go and see Mary Pickford chained to the railway lines? Could have an orange, too."

"'Perils of Pauline', idiot," said Doyle. "That's who gets tied to the railway lines. Tell you what, you can take me to the Tate tomorrow. You'll hate it."

"All right," said Smith. "You can explain the odd ones to me."

oOo

"Well," said Smith, "that was very interesting. I don't remember being asked to leave an art gallery before. I still think I was right. Can't stand beards and sandals."

"I'm often asked to leave," said Doyle. "I kept trying to tell you the artist was behind you. Mind you, I do agree with you. His stuff is - I wouldn't have told him to his face myself, with him being built like a tank. It took seven men once to throw him out of the Dog and Partridge."

"That's the one you can't go into isn't it?" Smith asked idly.

"One of 'em. I had a disagreement there, some chairs got broken. Let's get some chips. It's a nice night, there might be a moon. Can we run to a bottle of anything?"

"A half of whisky," said Smith, after consulting his pockets.

 

Smith put the chips to keep warm while he set the table. "Ray!"

"I won't be a minute. I'm just having a quick wash. Don't eat all the chips!"

Smith was stoking the fire when Doyle wandered back in, wrapped in a towel.

"Keeping the fire in tonight? The geyser's working better. I left you some hot water."

"Good. Here, have your chips."

Doyle ate slowly, then when they had finished, got up to fetch a rug, which he spread out on the threadbare carpet.

Smith raised an eyebrow. "Ray?"

"It'll be more comfortable for us. Would you like your supper to go down first?"

Smith sighed. "You're not romantic at all, are you, Ray?"

"Huh! No fun on a full stomach, believe me. Go and get washed."

Smith did so, then came and sat beside him. "Ray, I don't know - "

"Yes, I know. Leave it to me. Just yell if you don't fancy anything."

oOo

Doyle awoke and stretched contentedly. They'd pulled the mattress onto the floor at some time in the night. The sun was streaming in. Beside him, Smith snored blissfully. Doyle smiled at him affectionately. For such a staid, sober character he'd been very loving once over his initial shyness. Perhaps things would work out. 

No! I can't get serious. He'll get his memory back and return to his own life one day. Just take it easy, Doyle. Don't go falling in...

He realised Smith was awake and beaming at him.

"Morning," said Smith. "Who's getting up to make the tea?"

Doyle looked at him, outraged. "Proper little passion-killer, you are. I expected something better than that."

"All right," said Smith. "I'll make the tea - and give you a cuddle after."

Doyle grinned. "That's better. You wouldn't like to do me some fried bread too? No, I thought you wouldn't. Honeymoon over, is it?"

"I'm not cuddling anyone who's been guzzling fried bread," said Smith. "Here, get your tea down you while I make breakfast. Then we are off to Brighton. You need some fresh air."

"Smith, don't be bossy. I don't like Brighton - "

 

Doyle sat on the front, watching the waves crash onto the shingle. "Come to Brighton, you said. Day by the sea, be good for you! I'll probably get pneumonia! And stop eating those awful giant pickles. Curdle your blood, they will."

Smith chewed happily. "Good these are. I've never had 'em this big before. Like to go round the Pavilion? You can criticise the pictures. We should be on our own for the day with weather like this."

Doyle, watching the rain pelting down, was inclined to agree. You've got it bad," he thought to himself, going all soggy watching him eat pickles.

"All right, you can tell me all about the Pavilion? Who built it anyway? It's a funny-looking place."

"Are you having me on?" asked Smith.

"Naw. Well, I know someone called Prince Regent built it, I just don't know who he was or why. Do you know, Smith?"

 

"...and that's him," Smith continued, pointing to the portrait.

Doyle eyed it critically. "Had a job making him look good, didn't they!" he remarked. "The suit's well painted. But that hand's bad. The paint's cracking, too. Pigment they used hasn't worn well. Bloody hell, I'd like to put that curtain right. Look at it!"

"Ray, can't you ever look at a painting as a painting, or a portrait, instead of taking them apart?" asked Smith, amused.

"When they are well done, yes, but that one isn't. I wouldn't have like to paint him anyway, he sounds a sod. I hate doing portraits. Unless you get on with the sitter it's a bugger!"

Smith shook his head. "You'd never have made a court painter. "I can't see you leaving the warts out. Oh, china!" He walked over to look at the case. "Meissen. Not bad pieces either."

Doyle walked over to him. "Bit fancy. Pretty though. How do you know?"

"My mother had a couple of pieces, she was very attached to them." Smith stopped and stared back at the cases. "No, the memory's gone again. Come on, dinner!"

Doyle, walking after him, looked back at the china, his face worried.

oOo

"Summer's ending," said Fred. He passed a hammer to Smith, who was crouched under his sink. "Pity you couldn't get away this year. Still, Ray had plenty of work. How much will that be, Smith?"

"Two shillings," said Smith. "Try not to let them pour so much thick paint down. It just clogs everything up."

"Right. Here you are. Got time to look at Elsie's bicycle?"

oOo 

Doyle looked up from his painting at Ethel walked in. "Thought you were Smith," he remarked. "He's down at Fred's. They've got sink trouble again."

"I've bought the sugar back. Hey, that's good of him. Very good."

"Yeah, it's not bad. Best I've done yet, I think. Though I'll probably change my mind tomorrow."

"You're very happy together, aren't you," she remarked. "Smith glowers possessively round you, and you've never looked better. You're very good for each other."

"Yes, I didn't expect it to last this long. It just seems to get better. I'm thinking about renting a cottage in Cornwall next summer. Smith will like the sea, and we could do with a change. I've been too busy this year. You staying to dinner?"

"No, I've got a poor twit of a bearded Earl coming for a portrait sitting. I have to make him look vibrant and intelligent - the poor lamb has trouble doing up his shoelaces! It's sad really. I'd better be off."

"Ethel," Doyle called after her, "can I borrow that Indian rug?"

"Yes. What for?"

"I was asked to do a nude for the new place on the corner. Lil's coming up. I can't just sit her on that mouldy old sofa. I need something exotic."

"All right. But don't get paint on it. I'll bring it up."

oOo

Smith, who had picked up enough from assorted jobs to purchase supper, struggled with a large paper of fish and chips and a bottle of milk to open the door one-handed, his yells of "Ray, open the door!" having gone unanswered. He finally got it open without dropping the milk - a near thing.

The fire had gone down, he noticed. And a comely, ample girl was draped on the sofa on Ethel's Indian carpet. Smith, accustomed to coming home to these tableaux, merely glanced at her and went to put the fish and chips to keep warm. Then he heard her teeth chattering.

"Ray, for heaven's sake!" He walked over and heaved some coal on the fire. Ray, wearing an assortment of garments, looked at him vaguely.

"I'm busy," he remarked.

"Yeah, I know. Lily's turning blue! Give her a break to get warm. I'll put the kettle on."

"Look - Oh, all right. Lily, take ten minutes. Do you want some fish and chips?"

Lily sighed with relief and hurtled into Smith's old greatcoat, before getting out her knitting - the inevitable matinée coat, with which she warned off would-be seducers.

Doyle wandered through into the kitchen. "Is there enough food for all of us?"

"Just about. You're an inconsiderate sod! I swear one day I'll come home and find one of those girls frozen stiff. I thought you didn't like doing nudes?"

"I don't, but they're paying me five pounds for it. Geoff did one but it wasn't acceptable. Too risqué! They said they wanted something tasteful. Well, Lily looks very wholesome!"

"You should put her knitting in. What's it for, the Salvation Army Hall?"

"Ha ha! No, the men's club down the road. "Is this mine?"

"Yes." Smith walked in with Lily's mug of tea in his other hand. "Here you are, Lil."

"Thanks, love. The little sod forgets I've got no clothes on."

Smith put more coal on and settled on his bed with a book.

"Right, Lil, when you're ready."

Lily sighed regretfully and removed the greatcoat. Apart from a brief argument on an alteration of the pose, the work proceeded normally.

 

"That's enough for today," Doyle said. "Ten o'clock Tuesday all right?"

"If you have a bigger fire in. That's 2/6d - I'm charging for the cold."

"Smith, do you have any money left? I'm a bit short."

Smith searched through his pockets. "Here."

Doyle saw Lily out and then came back to look at his work. "There, what do you think of it?  
Wholesome but erotic they wanted - I think!"

"Difficult to get both," said Smith. "I can't see Lily as erotic, not with seeing her knitting those damned little coats all the time. She got a nice, pleasant face."

"That's not what you're supposed to notice!" said Doyle with asperity. "Come on, you're just in after a hard day at the fish market and you see this. Does it make you feel - er - better?"

"Ray, it doesn't work with me now. I see naked ladies all day long around here. That one of Geoff's just puts her pinny on to take the milk in. She asked after you yesterday, by the way. Said she knew you. Dark girl with a birthmark on her chest."

"Oh, Linda. She's back, is she? I did a portrait of her once. She fidgets all the time. She may make overtures to you. She did to me."

"That will be nice," said Smith. "I'd better arrange to borrow Ethel's rug again."

"Smith! Stop grinning. You nearly had me going, you lousy sod!"

 

"You know something," Doyle remarked, much later that evening, as they cuddled together, "we've been together over five hundred days. I never expected it would last."

"Pessimist!" said Smith. "I told you it would be all right. You should listen to me more. What's the matter, disappointed because you're happy?"

"No. Decided I'd believe in happy endings after all, against my better judgement, too. We ought to celebrate or something. Smith, do you worry about still not remembering?"

"Not as much as I used to. I keep thinking lately that the walls are getting thinner. I keep almost remembering. But things will still be the same, don't you worry!"

"I'm not worried. I know you won't leave me."

"Why should I? After all," said Smith firmly, "it's paradise here. That window needs fixing again. And if Jefferson's cheque bounces, and that's more than likely, we're going to have to start avoiding Dracula again, and there isn't a thing in the cupboard for breakfast."

"No problem," said Doyle. "We can go to the Garden. I want to do some sketches there. Then you can go and see Foxy Fred about the paintings he has in case he's made us a sale. I've been saving sixpences in that cocoa tin on the top shelf - for a good cause! I think breakfast will be it. And if you say 'What about the rent?' I'll thump you!"

"Breakfast sounds much better," Smith agreed. "You'd better get back to sleep if you want to get to the Garden early."

oOo

Doyle looked round and sniffed happily. "It's nice being out this early. Not too many people about and we can see the city before it gets too busy. Like going to the Garden, don't you?"

"Yes. I'll look about, then meet you at the Lamb about seven."

"No, make it six-thirty and order breakfast. Here!" Doyle poured a stream of sixpences into his hand.

 

It was after six-thirty when Doyle appeared. Smith looked up from his well-filled plate.

"Maggie's keeping yours warm. Sausages, bacon, egg, black pudding and fried bread all right?"

"Sounds just the job." Doyle got his plate and began to eat.

When he'd finished, Smith picked up the sketchbook and began to look through.

"You've done a lot. I like this one with the fruit stall."

"Yeah. I'll work that up, see what comes of it. Smith, I've been thinking we should get out of London this summer. Dave knows someone who will rent us a cottage cheap in Cornwall. How would you like that?"

"It sounds fine," said Smith. "Nice to get out of the city for the summer. Now, I'd better be getting over to Foxy to see if there's any news, and to take that picture in. Anything else I can do on the way?"

"No. Just point out to Foxy that it's been a while since my last sale and we are starting to get hungry - and that the rent is overdue."

 

Mr Fox looked at the painting. "Very nice, Mr Smith. No, I haven't had a sale yet, but I do have a buyer who is very interested. He's coming tomorrow to make up his mind definitely. I like this one very much. Mr Doyle is improving all the time. If you call in on Friday I should have definite news for you. If I don't make a sale I'll advance you something on account."

"Thank you. Good-day."

Smith started back to the studio. It looked as if things were improving for them!

The morning rush hour was well underway. He stepped from the kerb and came into violent collision with a butcher-boy on his cycle, who turned without warning. Smith fell, striking his head, hard. He dimly heard voices talking and people were helping him up.

"Are you all right?"

His head hurt. He looked about.

Where the hell was he? London? But it didn't look right - and where was his uniform?

He let himself be helped to one side and rested a moment. Surely his club was near here? He'd better go there and inquire.

He assured people he was all right, and started to walk down the road. 

Things were different. No uniforms, that was it. And people were dressed differently. The shops - some had changed hands, surely?

There was his club He stared at the doorman, not recognising him.

"Excuse me, sir, are you a member?"

"Of course I am! You'll find me in the register. Major, no, Mr William Bodie."

"No, sir, I don't think so."

A passing man glanced at him. "Good heavens, it's William! Where have you been?"

Bodie looked at him. "It's Lord Sinclair, isn't it?"

"Yes - and no! I inherited the title last year. But come in, you look awful! Stubbins, you'll find Mr Bodie on the roll for 1918. He went missing in France. I'll vouch for him. Help me get him inside!"

Bodie realised he felt very giddy. A chair was brought and he was lowered into it. Slowly his head cleared and he looked about.

"What's the date?"

"12th of May, 1920. You were listed as missing. Look, you'd better have a meal and I'll get you a hotel room. You can't talk now."

Bodie nodded. "Thank you. It's all mixed up."

oOo

The next morning Bodie felt better, but his memory had not fully returned. His life from the time of the attack in France - his last real memory - to his coming to on a street corner in central London was a complete blank!

He discussed it over breakfast with Lord Sinclair, as he still thought of him.

"Give it time, William. It could just be the shock. You should get in touch with your family."

"Yes. Who's running the business? Is Uncle James still alive?"

"Indeed so, he and your cousin, with some of the old board members. Things aren't going well there. Welcome home, Will!"

"I'll ring them later. How are your family?"

 

After breakfast Bodie went to the phone, and after an argument with an unknown man, his uncle came on the line.

"Look here, who are you? How dare you - "

"Uncle James," said Bodie. "I'm alive and in my right mind and I will be travelling up to Delavel very shortly. I shall ring for the car from the station."

 

Lord Sinclair looked up sympathetically as he re-entered the dining room.

"I don't need to tell you, William, that your resurrection will be most unwelcome to certain people!"

"I imagine so," said Bodie. "What have they been doing? Running my business into the ground?"

"Almost. Your uncle has very outmoded ideas. There's been trouble with the work force, bad management - the whole place needs modernising. And that son of his is a work-shy parasite!"

"I'll just have to put things right then, won't I," said Bodie.

"You've no idea where you've been all this time?"

"None at all. I went through my pockets this morning. I found about eight sixpences, a key - to a room, I think. It's not a front door key. This piece of - what is it? Like a crayon, only - "

"It's a pastel. My daughter dabbles in art. The stuff flakes all over the place. Well, William, I wish I could be a fly on the wall when you meet your family again!"

Bodie grinned. "Yes. I doubt they have the fatted calf ready! Well, goodbye, sir, and thank you for your help."

"Good luck, William. Keep in touch!"

oOo

Bodie glanced through the train window; they were now passing the outer fringes of London. A nagging feeling at the back of his mind kept telling him that he shouldn't be leaving, but he had to go north. He was needed! He shook his head. God knew what mess Uncle James had got the firm into, he'd never had much sense. As for that son of his...

He wondered how Emily was. She was the only real family he had, or wished to acknowledge. His parents had died before the war and he'd been an only child.

'Big surprise, you were!' his father had said many times. 'But a very welcome one!'

Looking back, Bodie supposed some would have considered his childhood lacking; the only son of middle-aged parents, his mother's poor health had kept him distant from her. But he remembered being happy enough, trotting saucer-eyed through the pottery at his father's heels; being picked up to watch the bowls being shaped on the wheels, and clamouring to be allowed to do it himself. He'd learnt too, eventually.

"I want William to be able to throw a pot as well as anyone here," his father had said, "so he knows what it's all about."

He was finally there.

He alighted at the station and called the house, wondering if Uncle James would refuse to send the car for this 'pretender', but it finally arrived - with Jenkins and Emily! She was still as sparrow-like, he noticed.

She flew into his arms.

"William! I kept saying all the way 'Don't get excited, it won't be him!' She hugged him happily.

Jenkins was beaming all over his face. "It's a pleasure to see you again, sir. You've been sadly missed."

"It's good to be back," said Bodie.

oOo

Ethel looked up as Doyle came back into the room and slumped into a chair. He was cold and wet.

"Any luck?" she asked. "Any news at all? Fred and Dave have gone to ask around the pubs in case anyone saw him after he left Foxy's."

"No. I went to the police and asked about accidents. Anyone they couldn't identify. They took me to look at the only one they had. He was right build for Smith. I wasn't sure until they took the sheet off." He shuddered. "I couldn't look for a moment."

"Oh, Ray!" She put a mug of tea into his hand. "Here! You look frozen. What did Mr Fox say? Did Smith say anything to him, or seem odd?"

"No. He just took the message about the paintings. Seemed quite cheerful. He couldn't have got lost on the way back, he's done that trip hundreds of times. If he'd gone on a message and got lost he would have asked. He has no trouble speaking now. I asked the police had they anyone like that but they hadn't. What the hell's happened to him?"

"Here's Fred now!"

"No luck, Ray. There was a bit of an accident by the crossing, just after Foxy's shop. A man was knocked down by a bicycle, but he got up right away. Seemed okay and just went on his way. He seemed to know where he was going. The newsboy on his pitch saw it but didn't think much of it with the man not being hurt. It happens all the time. The description could have been Smith or thousands of others. Dave's gone back to the station. The sergeant there's a decent bloke and he knows Smith. He'll ask round for us."

"Thanks, Fred. I'll talk a walk back up to the Garden. He might have gone there."

"Ray! You come back - Oh, damn!" said Ethel. "It's no night for him to be out."

"All right, Ethel. I'll get after him," said Fred, grabbing his coat again. "Ray's going to take this hard. It's like losing Ben all over again. But at least he knew where Ben was!"

oOo

"It's been more than a month," said Doyle. He coughed harshly. "Supposing he's wandering again, not knowing who he is. I wouldn't mind if he'd left me, if only I knew he was all right. I just need to know. Nobody's seen anything of him after that accident - if that was him. The police say no one's turned up, dead or alive, that they can't identify."

"Ray, for goodness sake sit down, you're all in. He wouldn't have just left you, he wasn't that sort. I'm sure he'll turn up again. Please, love, get some sleep."

oOo

Lady Frances glared at her husband. "It's no good shilly-shallying, James, you are going to have to speak to William! Apart from anything else, his manner towards Norman has been most unpleasant."

Her son, lounging on the settee, looked up. "Bad form, turning up like that, too," he drawled. "They had to chip his name off the War Memorial. Very bad show!"

"Norman, be quiet!" snapped his mother. "We must be grateful William is still alive." Her tone lack conviction. "But he must understand that these plans of his for the firm will cut out dividends severely. And those remarks of his on the way you ran the business in his absence were most rude! I suppose there's no chance he's an imposter?"

"Of course not, woman!" yelled her husband. "And if that son of yours had made an effort to do a decent job of work, a lot of this trouble could have been avoided. I'm telling you now, William will have most of the board with him when he asks for Norman's resignation at the next board meeting."

"He can't do that!" Norman roused himself. "I need the money!"

"He's offering to buy your shares. I'd grab the money and run, if I were you, Norman. There won't be any support for you on the board, believe me!"

Norman shrugged. "I'm sick of this place anyway. Dull, dreary and full of Nonconformist principles. I'll go over and see if I can get dear William to jack his price up a bit. Then I'm off to the south of France."

"James, surely you can oppose him? All the board can't be with William."

"Enough of them are. And the place will go under anyway if he can't pull off a miracle. He's made me a good offer for my interest. I think I'll accept. We could get a very nice place in Bognor, you know. Be much better for your sciatica in winter!"

oOo

Dr Ryan stood glaring at Doyle, who was slumped in a chair, glass in hand.

"For the last time, Ray, you are going to have to cut out this drinking. You haven't been eating properly, you're smoking again - that last attack was the final warning. Your heart is showing definite signs of strain. Keep on like you're doing and, well - " He shrugged.

Doyle looked up at him. "I don't give a damn!"

"In that case I'm wasting my time here. I have plenty of other patients who need my help. Oh, Ray, don't throw your life away! You have great talent - the waste! Miss Carmichael, see if you can't talk some sense into him."

"I'll do what I can, doctor."

After he left, Ethel walked over to Doyle, took the glass from his hand and poured the contents down the sink. "That's enough, Ray! If Smith could see you now he'd be bloody ashamed of you. All the care he took of you and you're throwing it away."

"All right!" Doyle staggered to his feet. "I know drinking doesn't help. I still wonder where he is. Perhaps he's dead too. No, I can't believe that."

"Ray, have you considered - he might have remembered?"

"Yes, and that he couldn't come back to me because there's someone else with more claim on him. I wouldn't really mind that as long as he isn't wandering again, as he was when I found him. I just want to know he's all right!"

"Come to bed, Ray. And try to sleep. I'll stay a while."

oOo

Two years later

"Yes, William, I knew you wouldn't be in favour of the idea, but the board are insisting you have your portrait painted to go on the wall next to your father's. He'd be so proud, the way you have pulled the firm together, God rest him!" said Mr Hicks.

"Look, Sam, I haven't time for nonsense like that," Bodie protested. "I've more important things to do."

"Now, William, it won't take up much time. You have to go up to London next month. We could arrange for it to be done then. I'd like the man who painted Mrs Baines' portrait to do it. You never saw it, did you? Lovely piece of work. Now she's gone, Tom says it's a great comfort to him, seeing his Lucy like she was."

"A good woman, Mrs Baines," said Bodie. "He'll miss her. Well, ring the fellow up and make an appointment so I can get it over with."

"It may not be that simple, William. He's a difficult character. He might not wish to paint you. He's refused several commissions that I know of for a fact."

Bodie looked at him, open-mouthed. "You mean he refuses work just on a whim? Most unbusinesslike!"

"It's not quite like that. If he feels no empathy with the sitter then the portrait could be a failure. He painted Jos Smedley because a friend persuaded him. The painting was not a success. Made Jos look like a mean-spirited turnip."

"Well, he is," said Bodie.

"Perhaps. But the family would have preferred a more flattering likeness."

Bodie roared. "All right, get in touch with him. If anyone walks out it'll be me if I don't like him. He doesn't wear a beard and sandals, does he? What's his name, anyway?"

"Raymond Doyle. And the last time I saw him, no he didn't."

"Doyle? Never heard of him."

"Well, as he doesn't use china clay, you wouldn't," said Mr Hanks.

oOo

"Ray!" called Ethel. "Can you sit for me this morning? I need to try out some new light settings."

"No," said Doyle absently. "Won't Jeremy do it?"

"He's gone home to his mother," said Ethel. "He was a nice boy, but no stamina. Come on, you do it better than the others."

"And free," muttered Doyle. "Oh, all right, but I have to answer this letter. Another northern industrialist wants his fat red face immortalising. I'm going to tell him to - "

"Ray, you know what Dr Ryan said. You need to get abroad for the worst months of the year. If you charge this man a nice fat fee, that's your months in the sun paid for. You can get some work done over there too. You know how you like the light there." She eyed him critically. "It's a pity about your face. Still, it will be practice taking it out on the proofs. It's healed up quite well, hasn't it."

"It'll learn me not to get into fights over Cubism in a four-ale bar in future," said Doyle. "Here's the letter, see what you think. I met Mr Hanks when I was painting that lady at Longford. Lovely women, very understanding. It was a pleasure to paint her. You know anything about this Mr Bodie and his firm? Is he in your handbook to the rich and revolting?"

"I'll look him up for you. I know the firm makes some good china. It had a shake-up after the war. They have good industrial relations with their workers. Cleo did some work for them recently. Very businesslike, she said. They picked what she considered her best designs, too. She's doing some modelling for them now - pieces for rich Americans to buy. Oh, she's going to share the studio with me. Her place is being demolished and - Well, it's time I gave up the baby-faced boys. They get in the way of my work. I'll ask her about Mr Bodie when I see her."

"Good. I like to know about the people I have to paint. Now, let's reply to his letter."

oOo

Mr Hanks looked at the letter gloomily. He hoped William would not be annoyed at its less than courteous tone. 

Bodie came into the room. "Sam, those pieces we commissioned have arrived. Come and take a look at them."

"In a moment. I've heard from Mr Doyle. He can squeeze you in next Thursday, two o'clock, he says. And he's doubled his fee."

"Hmm," said Bodie. "'Squeeze me in' indeed. I'll see to him! Come in Miss Weston, let's see what you have for us."

oOo

Ethel refilled her glass and raised it. "Cheers," she said. "So that's the rent paid for six months, all that lovely clay, and this excellent booze."

"And I'm going to put down a deposit on a new kiln," said Cleo. "This one has had it. I had to borrow a friend's for the final firing. They've asked me to do a series for them too."

"Good. Ray's been asked to paint Mr Bodie. What is he like?"

"Black William? Oh, very straightforward. If he doesn't like your work he says so right away. He's a bit on the serious side but I like him. He's good to work for and he has the great good taste to admire my work tremendously. Good-looking, if you like the dark, broody type."

"Hmm," said Ethel. "I looked him up. He inherited the firm from his father. Both parents are dead. He served in France. He's unmarried and belongs to a London club. I don't know much else. Any idea what else he's interested in, apart from his pottery?"

"He puts money into local music affairs. He's very interested in garden design. There's talk he's going to marry his cousin, Miss Emily Braithwaite. She owns a small pottery he'd like to take over. She's a real character! Any more of that gin left?"

Ethel passed the bottle over. "I hope Ray won't be too difficult with him. He could do with the money to get away this winter."

oOo

Doyle was in a foul mood as he tidied up his studio; his morning's work hadn't gone well and he disliked being interruptd to deal with some damned factory owner who felt the need for self-advertisement. He'd had enough of that with Jos Smedley! But his doctor had been firm.  
'You can't afford to stay in Englahnd in the winter with that chest, especially in this damned draughty hole!'

So... He had no other commission in view; he would have to paint Mr Bodie.

He looked round, the place wasn't too untidy, pulled a comb through his hair and forgot to change his shirt.

There was a knock on the door. Mr Hanks stood there.

"Ah, Mr Doyle, good afternoon. Mr Bodie will be up presently. He will discuss the number of sittings with you."

Doyle nodded.

"Oh, and Mr Doyle, you may find Mr Bodie a little blunt in his manner and disinclined to - Here he is now!"

Doyle stood transfixed.

"Mr Bodie, this is Mr Doyle. I'll leave you now."

There was no sign of recognition from Bodie, who was looking round the studio, his expression clearly saying 'needs organisation and a damned good clean.'

"Mr Bodie," said Doyle, trying to recover himself. "If you would sit over there, I'd like to make some preliminary sketches."

As Bodie sat down he noticed that Doyle's hands were shaking, and he looked pale.

Probably drinks, he thought. He doesn't look well. Too much wild living!

Doyle was thankful to feel himself regaining control. It was obvious 'Smith' didn't remember him at all. Well, at least he'd prospered. There was no need to worry about him being lost and alone any more. He looked well, too; just a little older. The lost, bewildered look had gone. His Smith had never shown that hard confidence.

He's probably going to tell me how to paint your portrait, thought Doyle wryly. Well, you can forget that idea, Mr Bodie. This is going to be my best work!

Bodie noticed the artist's expression had become more animated, he even had some colour in his cheeks. Still looked like a scarecrow though. He'd better make his feelings plain before they started.

"How long should all this take, Mr Doyle? I haven't got time to waste," said Bodie.

"I could do it in six sittings," said Doyle, "though I'd prefer more. If you want a quick, cheap job, get yourself a Kodak!" The remark was out before he could stop it.

Oh, great, Raymond, he told himself. There goes your trip to the sun! And you want to paint this portrait, too.

He worked on. There was a long silence.

"I appreciate your wish to do a good job, Mr Doyle, but you could have expressed it in a more civil manner."

"Yes," said Doyle.

He went on sketching. After an hour he looked up. "Stretch, if you need to. I'm going to put the kettle on."

"I do," said Bodie. "I didn't know sitting could be so tiring." 

He accepted the chipped mug of tea without comment, though Doyle was amused at the professional look he gave the crockery.

"Poor quality," Bodie remarked.

"Nice cheap foreign import," said Doyle.

"False economy. They'll chip. We make a good range of kitchenware. Hardly ever chips."

"Parkin?" offered Doyle, remembering he had some from Cleo.

"Parkin would be fine," said Bodie.

Doyle passed him a slice and watched him eat it with evident enjoyment. You haven't changed in that, he thought.

Now he was over the first shock he was able to look at 'Smith' more objectively. He hadn't changed that much. Physically he was heavier - too much time behind a desk, he guessed. It was the manner - Doyle found himself blinking suddenly.

Pull yourself together, he snarled to himself. He's alive. Doing well. He doesn't remember you and there's no way you can tell him... Get on with your work.

"When you're ready," said Doyle. "I'd like to do some more before I lose the light."

Bodie sat down again. 

 

"Well, that's as much as I can do today," said Doyle finally, as the light faded.

"When will you want me to come again?" Bodie asked. "I'd like to get this over with as quickly as possible."

He sounded as though he was facing a dental extraction.

Doyle grinned suddenly. "I'll make it as painless as possible," he said. "If you could make it Tuesday next week. Then we'll see how we go on."

"Very well. Good evening, Mr Doyle."

As Bodie was leaving a tall girl came hurrying up the stairs. She stopped, staring.

"Ethel!" Doyle called. "This is Mr Bodie!"

"Good evening, Mr Bodie," said Ethel.

"Good evening, ma'am," said Bodie.

After he had left Ethel came into the studio.

"Ray, that was Smith! Or am I going mad?" She poured herself a drink.

Doyle reached over and took one too. "No, that was Smith. He doesn't remember me at all, or anything here. There's no way I can tell him. Imagine the shock! I can tell he disapproves of painters and their ways. I'm glad he's all right though. I always knew he had a good background."

"Oh, damn, damn," said Ethel. "Isn't there anything you can do? Perhaps he'll remember now he's found you again."

"Ethel, love, that isn't 'Smith'. That is Mr William Bodie, a rich pottery manufacturer and pillar of the community! He isn't my 'Smith' at all. Anyway, I'm going to do the best I can with his portrait - but first I'm going to get absolutely plastered!"

oOo

The sittings began. After some initial argument over the number required, Bodie finally gave in for two reasons; firstly, he was faced with a will as strong as his own and, secondly, he was beginning to find the glimpses he had of Doyle's strange, disorganised world interesting. He wouldn't have admitted it, but he also enjoyed having his views constantly challanged by Doyle, who was no respecter of persons. As Emily often said to him, "You get your own way too often, William. It's very bad for you!"

"Tell me, Mr Doyle," he inquired, after listening to a furious diatribe from the painter, "are radical views inseperable from oil paint and a Bohemian lifestyle?"

Doyle glared at him. "There's no need to be bloody patronising! No! Seeing the way people have to live round here, with what I saw in France, encouraged them. Bloody politicians, incompetent officers. They should have stuck most of the generals in the bloody front line trench!"

"Agreed," said Bodie. "But I was an officer there myself, by the way."

"You weren't at bloody Sandhurst though, were you," said Doyle. "They wouldn't have let you in, seeing you make pots!"

"True," said Bodie. "Does that make me on the side of the angels, or just another factory owner, grinding my workers' faces?"

Doyle was silent for a moment. "I haven't made up my mind about you yet. Come on, let's get back to work."

Bodie had begun to find out about Doyle, too, wanting to know about the man who was painting him. He'd already realised that Doyle's sharp tongue concealed a warm, generous heart; he seemed to be helping out most of the other people in the building. From the people who had sat for him there were varied reactions, ranging from incoherent fury from the Smedley family, to others like Tom Baines. He had now seen the painting of Baines' late wife; Tom had been more than happy to show it to him. He remembered Mrs Baines as a kindly, pleasant women; the painting showed that and much more. Goodness was now an outmoded word, but that and the strength of it flowed from the painting and made her beautiful.

"He saw her like she was," said Tom. "He wrote to me after she died. He seemed to understand how I felt. He's a good, kind lad. Lucy liked him. She talked to him as though he was one of ours. He'd never been cared for enough, she said."

"It's a beautiful portrait," said Bodie. "Thank you for letting me see it."

oOo

They were nearing the end of the sittings; a meeting kept him late and he was hurrying to the studio behindhand for his appointment. When he arrived Doyle was smoking furiously and looking very tired.

"Sorry," said Bodie. "The meeting went on longer than I expected."

Doyle nodded and started work without comment.

Bodie looked at him. "Are you all right?" he asked, concerned.

Doyle glanced over. "Yes." Then he started to cough. "Damn! Excuse me for a moment." He left the room.

Bodie listened as the coughing changed to gasping and hurried after him. Doyle was hanging onto his bedrail behind a screen, gasping for breath.

"Asthma?" asked Bodie.

Doyle nodded.

Bodie looked round, found a cone and lit it. "Shall I get the doctor?"

"No," gasped Doyle.

Rightly ignoring this, Bodie went to the door and saw Ethel coming up the stairs. "Mr Doyle's having an attack. Do you know where his doctor lives?"

"I'll get him," said Ethel. "It's just round the corner. Try and keep him calm."

Doyle tried to protest. Bodie settled him on the bed.

"Now, try to relax," he commanded. "The doctor's on his way."

The spasms seemed to be getting worse. To his relief, the doctor arrived.

"Good thing you called me, Ethel," he remarked. 

Slowly his treatment took effect. "There, he could be all right now. Can you stay with him a while, Ethel?"

"Yes, doctor. I think it's the weather. He's hoping to get away soon."

"He needs to! That was a bad attack." 

He glanced at Bodie. "Mr - ?"

"Bodie. He's painting my portrait."

"Good thing you were here. Ray tries to cope on his own."

Bodie wondered why the doctor was watching him so intently.

"Well, I must be going now," the doctor added. "Call me if there's any reoccurrence. And I know it's a lost cause, but try and stop him smoking!"

"Yes," said Ethel. "Thank you." She saw the doctor out.

"Would you like a cup of tea, Mr Bodie?" she asked. "Ray seems to be sleeping now."

"Yes, thank you. Does Mr Doyle get these attacks often?"

"It varies. Different things bring them on. I think it's the cold and damp in this studio, this time." She passed over a cup of tea.

"He needs to have a much better fire than that!" said Bodie. "He needs building up."

"Coal costs money," said Ethel, "as do warm clothes and trips to France for the warmer weather. I'm sorry, you weren't to know. I'm glad you were here to help him."

"Miss - ?" Bodie looked at her.

"Carmichael."

"Miss Carmichael," said Bodie. "I have to go now, but I'm leaving some money on account for my portrait. Tell Mr Doyle to get some good coal in, will you?" He placed a note on the table and left.

Ethel walked over and picked up the bank note. "Five pounds!" She dashed to the top of the stairs.

"Cleo, come up here! We have some shopping to do."

oOo

Bodie returned a few days later to find a somewhat peeved Doyle up painting and swathed in a large jersey, while a comfortable fire burnt in the grate.

"It wasn't necessary," he said. "We could have managed."

"I was making sure you didn't expire from pneumonia before my portrait was finished," said Bodie. "I want a return on the time I've spent here, you know. Miss Carmichael seems a very competent young woman."

"Yes, she and Cleo have a studio downstairs. Ethels a photographer, and a good one."

"Ah, yes. I've met Miss Weston. Well, how's my portrait coming on?"

"You can take a look. I need one more sitting, then I just have to do the finishing touches."

Bodie looked at the painting. "I'm not sure if I like it," he said finally.

"Like it or not," said Doyle, "this is you. It's coming out quite well."

"I'll ask Mr Hanks to look at it," said Bodie. "It was the board that wanted it."

oOo

Mr Hanks appeared the next day.

"Oh, excellent, Mr Doyle. You have him! A fine piece of work. The board will be delighted.

"I don't think your Mr Bodie is," said Doyle.

"Mr Bodie would probably have preferred something less revealing. He's a very private person. The only problem is, this will make the other portraits look very poor. I wish you could have done his father. He was a different character from William but I think you would have enjoyed painting him too."

"Well, I'll just put the final touches down now and have it sent up," said Doyle.

oOo

Three months elapsed. Doyle, much fitter after his holiday in the sun, was working up some water-colour sketches he'd done on his trip, when there was a knock on the door.

"Oh! Mr Bodie, come in. I got the cheque! My bank manager was most surprised. He thought I'd never get out of the red. Caused a sensation."

"You look much better," said Bodie with approval.

"Yes. I enjoyed the weather. Got some work done, too."

"Have you a commission at the moment?"

"No. And I don't want one. I have my own work to do."

Bodie sighed. "Mr Doyle, are you always this difficult?"

"Yes," said Doyle. "Listen, you paid over the odds for that portrait. I know it's probably the best I've done but I owe you a painting. I'd like to do one for you, and not that board."

"Thank you," said Bodie. "Can you stop for a moment? I'd like to talk."

"All right," said Doyle. "I feel like a break. Tea and - No, that's it. I'm out of cake."

"Roast beef sandwich?" said Bodie, producing a package like a conjuror. "Here, fresh from Simpson's. Two big ones."

They sat down comfortably.

"They're very good," said Doyle, chewing away.

"Yes," said Bodie. "I heard recently you were a war artist. A man I know saw some of your work and thought highly of it. I was in France myself. I'd like to see some of your sketches, if I may."

Doyle looked up. "Most of the best are in the War Museum for their records. You'll find some in those books over there." He pointed to a heap of sketch-books.

Bodie looked carefully through the pile. "You need organising," he remarked.

"So they tell me," said Doyle, just as Bodie dislodged a pile of loose sketches.

"Blast!" He bent to pick them up. "Ray? I don't remember posing for - "

Doyle walked over and took the sketch from him. "No. These are the ones you want. He does look a bit like you, doesn't he!" He tossed the sketch into a drawer.

Bodie looked throught the books slowly. "These are very good. This is the way it was. Have you thought about showing them?"

"No. People don't want to be reminded now. Look, I have to go out to see my dealer. Stay, if you'd like to look at them. Just pass the key in to Studio 6. Cleo will be in all day."

"Thank you."

Bodie went on studying the sketches, then glanced at his watch.

"Oh, damn. I'm meeting Emily at Fortnum's in twenty minutes. I have to go." He took the key from the hook by the door and let himself out, locking it behind him. Then he looked hard at the key, reached into his pocket and got out the one he always carried. They seemed identical but all these rooms had much the same lock. He went back into the room and took the sketch from the drawer, looking at his face in the mirror. Could Doyle have seen him in France - after he'd lost his memory? Or at the hospital? This man could have been him - younger and thinner and lost-looking, but enough like him to be a brother. The sketch wasn't dated. He slipped it back into the drawer.

I must ask Ray about it, he thought, before he set off to meet Emily.

She was seated in the tearoom, looking around, as he entered.

"Afternoon, Em. Well then, have you decided?" he asked.

She looked up. "On what, dear? Between a charlotte russe, a cream puff, or whether to accept your offer of marriage? Be more specific!"

"Now look, Emily, as far as the business goes it's sound common sense. You need capital, I want to expand. Then we have interests in common. We're both old enough to know our own minds. As far as the rest goes... Well, we've known each other all our lives. I'm sure we'll manage."

"This," said Emily to an éclair, "is the man who called his new coffee service 'Romance'!"

"It's selling very well, too," said Bodie. "It could become a standard."

"William, if you are going to talk business, I'm going to leave. Have a meringue. No, dear. I like you very much and I'm sure you'd make me a nice, kind, considerate husband, but I want more than that. Romance with a capital R! A man who'll yell: 'Emily, take your face out of that cake, woman!' and toss me over his shoulder and dash round to Caxton Hall aflame with passion."

"Be a long, hard run," said Bodie. "You've been reading those novels again. I keep telling you, like isn't like that. Look, Em, if you don't fancy marrying me, how about a merger? I could offer you a seat on the board. There'll be problems with you being a woman, but I can do it. What do you say?"

"William before you change your mind, I accept! Brenthouse Pottery is yours, subject to a little horse-trading, of course."

"Good," said Bodie. 

They grinned at one another.

"It's much better this way," he went on. "We're both too set in our ways to accommodate one another."

"I wish you'd remember you're not forty yet! What have you been doing? Anything wildly exciting?"

"I went to see Ray Doyle. You know, he painted my portrait. I'd like him to paint Delavel before I sell it. Something to remember the old place by."

"Thank goodness for that," said Emily. "Have you found a buyer? Victorian Gothic isn't to everyone's taste."

"Well, a school looking for larger premises made me an offer. If nothing else turns up I'll accept it. It's a fair one."

"I hope their pupils are hardy," said Emily. "The draughts in that place! Where are you going to live then?"

"I'm thinking of buying this place." Bodie passed a leaflet over. "It's not too big, it's near the factory, and has a good-sized garden - while the garden's been very neglected it has great possibilities. The house is in good order too. It just needs modernising a little. I'd like you to look over it if you will. You're good at that kind of thing."

"Tell you what, William, as we've come to such a satisfactory arrangement, I'll do the interior decorating for you. I'd like to see you comfortably settled."

"How much?" asked Bodie. "I know what you usually charge."

"Only the materials. And I'm good at it."

"Done," said Bodie. "Good. Do you want that éclair? By the way, I may have found a piece of my past. I'll tell you about it later. What do you do to get an artist's work exhibited?"

"Who do you have in mind?"

"Ray Doyle."

"Aha! Well, if you want it to be a success, make sure Ray won't be at the exhibition. He's a rude, stubborn, bad-tempered little devil - and a very fine painter. I met him when he was going a painting for a friend of mine. Well, we know Miles Franks is an arrogant, ignorant snob, but you don't tell him so. At least, not until the bank has cleared his cheque! Ray lost himself a very good commission there."

"Ray's like that," said Bodie gloomily. "He's difficult with me, too. Can you arrange it so he doesn't know I'm putting up the money?"

"Certainly. He's a very good painter. Interested, William? In being a patron of the arts, I mean."

"When you've finished stuffing your face, we have business to discuss. And you can stop trying to poach my Miss Weston. She'll be working for both of us now."

oOo

Bodie came out of the meeting with a sigh of relief. He felt depressed; it had been a hard day. He glanced at the evening papers, there was nothing on he wanted to see. Ray's paintings had a good review. He'd been invited to the show but his business commitments made it impossible, so he'd sent his best wishes. Back to his hotel room, he supposed. He never liked staying in London for any length of time.

Mr Hanks appeared. "Ah, William, I hoped I'd catch you. A Miss Carmichael was on the phone. She wished me to tell you that there is a party at the studios tonight - apparently Mr Doyle made some sales - and you are invited."

"Thanks, Sam. I'll look in on my way to the hotel."

 

Ethel greeted Bodie at the door; she had a glass in her hand and appeared unsteady.

"Ah! Mr Bodie!" she enunciated with great care, then turned and tripped over the cat.

Bodie sighed and looked round. He found Cleo in the kitchen, dealing with a load of baked potatoes, while drinking a large gin and tonic.

"Good evening, Miss Weston."

"Good evening, Mr Bodie. We are celebrating. Ray made some sales! Have a potato. We even have some champagne chilling."

"Where?" asked Bodie with interest.

"Out on the window-sill. Would you get it in? I don't trust Ray, he's at the stage when he thinks he can fly."

Bodie reeled the bottle in and opened it.

The party was a great success, the company, though merry, was not fractious, and Bodie enjoyed the general conversation. It was a change from pots, as Em would say, he told himself. Ray appeared from time to time; he seemed happy and very 'relaxed'. 

It was after three when Bodie assisted Cleo in getting the last unsteady guest over the threshold. Ethel, after a misjudged attempt to dance the cancan, had retired for a early call. He found Doyle dozing peacefully in the corner and hauled him to his feet.

Doyle opened a pair of muzzy green eyes. 

"Good old Smith! Knew you wouldn't miss the party. I've missed you," he said, then fell asleep again.

Bodie got him to his bed and removed his boots.

It didn't seem worth getting back to his hotel, so he settled down on the sofa. He was awakened at seven by a low moaning.

"Ray, are you all right?"

"No. My head's falling off."

"That's all right then," said Bodie, settling back to sleep.

He awoke to find a pallid Doyle offering him a cup of tea.

"Good party," said Doyle. "What I remember of it. Did I do anything spectacular?"

"No," said Bodie, "you just thought I was someone called Smith."

The cup shattered on the floor as Doyle dashed, grey-faced, for the sink.

Cleo walked into the room; she was wearing dark glasses but appeared functional. "Good morning, Mr Bodie. Is there any tea? I can't find a thing downstairs."

Bodie indicated the teapot.

"Ethel got away in time for her job. How's Ray? Oh. Yes."

"He's not feeling very well," said Bodie. "I should be getting back to my hotel."

Doyle tottered from behind the screen. "Sorry about that. I had the feeling you were trying to ask me something last night. What was it?"

"My old home," said Bodie, "I'd like a painting of it before I sell it. It's a terrible old place but I have happy memories of it."

"I'll take a look at it," said Doyle, "and let you know. Will that suit you?"

"Fair enough," said Bodie. "Here's the address. If you don't fancy the job I'll understand."

oOo

"Three weeks later Bodie was surprised to find a large package delivered to his office. He opened it, then stood back. 

"Mr Hanks, come and take a look at this." He indicated the water-colour.

Mr Hanks put on his glasses. "Charming!" he said. "I'd never have believed it could have been painted this way."

"That's how I saw it when I was a boy," said Bodie. "Like a castle, with all those turrets and battlements and things. That was before I learnt all about damp, draughts and dry rot. I wonder how he knew?" He looked at the note enclosed.

'This one I owe you. Hope you like it, R. Doyle.'

"I like it all right!" said Bodie. "Do you have the studio phone number, Sam?"

"Yes, I kept it to hand when you were having your portrait painted, in case you were needed. Here you are."

Bodie rang the number. After a while Doyle answered.

"Mr Doyle, the picture's arrived safely. I like it very much indeed."

"Good," said Doyle, "I'm glad of that." His voice sounded tired.

"I won't keep you," said Bodie. "I just wanted you to know."

"Thanks," said Doyle. "Goodbye."

Bodie sat looking at his painting. "He didn't sound well," he remarked.

"He has asthma and doesn't look after himself," said Mr Hanks. "He was a war artist, you know. I think it affected him greatly. It's a pity."

"Yes, I saw his work at the studio. There was one sketch I meant to ask him about - "

"William," said Mr Hanks, "I've been meaning to mention this for some time. You should really take a holiday. We have a clear field for months now. No reason why you can't take a break. It's been over a year since you had one."

"I'll take a break when I'm getting moved into my new house," said Bodie. "You know I don't like holidays. I prefer to keep working."

"The R.H.S. are having a big show in London next week. You could go down in good time for it, then stay on for the International Pottery Exhibition. You'll be nice and fresh then for the business side of it, and you can look at possible new plants and shrubs for your garden."

"Um, that sounds like a good idea. I'll think about it."

"Well, I know Miss Braithwaite would like a travelling companion. She is going down early too," said Mr Hanks.

"As long as she doesn't try and drag me to any of those rackety shows she likes!"

oOo

In fact Bodie enjoyed his two visits to the garden show, ordering new shrubs for his garden and evading Emily's attempts to get him to the theatre in the evenings.

"I'm going to see Doyle," he announced. "Thank him for the painting."

 

Doyle answered the door. Bodie was relieved to see that though he still looked tired, he seemed well. He again mentioned his pleasure in the painting.

"But how did you know I saw it like that?"

"Oh, I guessed you were a romantic at heart. I looked at the designs you'd picked for your china - that sort of thing."

"But that's just business," Bodie protested. "Knowing what the public will like."

"No," said Doyle. "If you didn't like them yourself, you wouldn't have picked them."

"You are right about the house, anyway," said Bodie. "I can't stand living there any more, but that's how I used to see it."

"What's the new house like then?" Doyle asked.

"Oh, much smaller. I don't do lot of entertaining. Miss Braithwaite - she's a partner now - her place is better for that and she likes doing it." He pulled out a photograph. "This is it. It's about two hundred years old; it's been well cared for. Just needs a few repairs. I'd like to modernise it a little. Nothing drastic, just make it easier to manage. The garden needs a lot of attention. I bought some shrubs for it this week at the gardening show."

Doyle studied the picture. "I was right! You are a romantic."

"Well, don't spread it around, it could be bad for business! Come on, we are going out to dinner."

"Oh, I'll cook something up. No need to - " Doyle began.

"We are going out to dinner!" said Bodie firmly. "What's the matter? Afraid being seen with me will give you a bad name?"

"For what?" Doyle asked, surprised.

"Hobnobbing with the rich and revolting," said Bodie.

"Said that at the party, did I?" asked Doyle gloomily.

"You did. So you can have dinner with me as an apology."

"I didn't mean you. And I never apolo - " Doyle looked at the glint in Bodie's eye. "All right, I'll have dinner with you. Do I have to wear a tie?"

"Of course," said Bodie. "I like a man who knows when he's beaten!"

 

As they waited for their meal Bodie watched, with amusement, his companion sketching on the menu. Doyle looked up.

"Sorry. Force of habit."

"They're bound to have some spares," said Bodie. "Bring a pad, next time."

"I usually do. I wasn't sure if you'd object. That man over there, the one with the pretty girl, has been trying to catch your eye, by the way."

Bodie glanced over. "He's a business acquaintance. If he wants to speak to me he can forget it."

"His daughter?" Doyle asked.

"No. Oh damn! Look, Ray, I'd better speak to him. I'll feel his eyes boring into the back of my  
neck all evening if I don't."

He went over to the bar. As expected Brooks followed him.

"All right, Fred, what is it?"

"I need to sound you out on the Arkwright business before the meeting." He droned on. Bodie ordered two whiskies to be sent over to his table.

"I still think you're wrong," he said finally, "but I'll give it some thought. And now I'd like to have my dinner in peace."

"That fellow with you," said Brooks, "he's Doyle the painter, isn't he?"

"Yes," said Bodie. "What about it?"

"I'd be careful of being seen with him, if I was you. I don't want to say any more. Good family, too."

"I see," said Bodie "That a school-friend of Felicity's with you?"

"Er, yes! I'm just giving her a meal before she goes back to school."

"I thought she was about Felicity's age," said Bodie.

He went back to his table. Doyle was still sketching and sipping his whisky. On Bodie's insistence he stopped to eat.

"That was good," he said finally. "And the wine."

"I wouldn't eat here if it wasn't. Pudding? No, I'd better not. You?"

"No. I don't eat it."

"Just coffee and brandy then."

 

They walked back to the studio in silence, with Doyle admitting two facts to himself. He was still very fond of - No, admit it! - in love with Smith and there was nothing he could do about it. He should step quietly out of Bodie's life before he did him any harm.

I couldn't bear that to happen. He's getting fond of me, protective, anyway, so before things get out of hand I'd better - He realised they had reached the studio.

"Come in and have some tea," he heard himself say. Bodie accepted.

Doyle got out the cups.

"Any parkin?" Bodie asked hopefully.

"No. But Ethel left some chocolate biscuits last time she was here. Over there."

Bodie chewed one reflectively. "Bit stale," he remarked.

"They would have been here a fortnight. Here, have some tea."

Bodie drank his tea and sat thinking a moment. "Ray, I never told you before, but I have a gap in my memory from the war. When I was visiting you some months ago I saw a sketch of a man who looked very like me - in a greyish shirt. Could he have been me?"

Doyle walked over to the drawer and took the sketch out. "He was in a military hospital. I was doing some work there. I only saw him once. He reminded me of someone I knew who died in the war. I can't tell you anything about him otherwise."

"You remember the hospital?"

Doyle gave him the address and Bodie made a careful note.

"I'll enquire there. I hate loose ends. Funny, I always thought you acted as though we'd met somewhere before."

Doyle smiled at him. "I expect it was the likeness. It startled me when we first met."

"Yes." Bodie looked at his watch. "I have to go. Will you be here next week?"

"No. I'm going to Ireland to do some work there. I'll probably stay a while. Lovely country. Look after yourself, Bodie!"

"Well, goodbye, Ray. I hope the trip turns out well."

oOo

Some weeks later Bodie was checking over sales returns with Emily.

"Well, that's done at last. What do you think, Em - satisfactory?"

"Very," said Emily. "We can relax for a while, on that front anyway."

"Em, you remember the sketch I told you about, and the hospital?"

"Yes. What happened there? I meant to ask you."

"I went up there with Mr Hanks. They remembered me all right. I'd disappeared Armistice night. They were afraid I'd gone in the river. Mr Hanks verified I was not in full possession of all my faculties. Not that they doubted it. I'd been there with speech problems and loss of memory - after shell-shock, they thought."

"Then," said Emily, "nearly two years later you turn up in London. There's a large gap to fill. You couldn't have been wandering about all that time, you'd have been picked up by the police. You hadn't been living rough, you were clean and tidy when you came round. And your clothes, what about your clothes?"

"Yes," said Bodie. "I didn't have time to think about it before, with the business, but now I want to know what I was doing and where I was all that time. Another thing, I must have been with someone. They are sure I couldn't have managed on my own. I couldn't make myself understood. No idea who I was. They must be wondering where I am now."

"Let's see," said Emily. "We'd better start with the clothes you were wearing. Have you still got them? Or anything else?"

"Yes, they're upstairs. I kept them in case. I like the way you've done the place, Em. It's very comfortable! I'll go and get them."

"Good.

"Now, let's take a look," she said, on Bodie's return with the clothes. "I can see why you didn't just throw them away. Good material, an expensive cut. Well, there should be a tailor's label. Yes, here we are."

"You know him?" Bodie asked.

"By repute. He does for the country gentry - the hunting, shooting, fishing set. They're an old-fashioned firm. Come on, William. We are going to play Sherlock Holmes. Get us booked into Brown's. I'll enjoy a short holiday in London."

"Now, Em... No, you're right. I want to fill that gap. We'll do it."

oOo

Bodie looked round the establishment with approval; it was good quality, a solid sort of place.

Emily placed the jacket on the counter and explained their interest in discovering its origins. 

"We do not divulge information on our clients," said the young man.

Bodie's eye had been caught by a regimental group photograph; he recognised the speaker among them.

"Mr Havisham," said Bodie, "I'd better tell you the whole story. I assure you, anything you tell us will be strictly private."

He told his story.

The young man paused for a moment. "Mr Bodie, let me look at our records. Then I'll decide."

"Fair enough," said Bodie. "You can trace it then?"

"Oh, yes. My father will have left a number somewhere in the garment. We always keep records. Quite often our clients do not wish to make the long journey up to London and just send in orders. We keep notes of measurements, that sort of thing." He took a large volume down from a shelf. "Now, let me see. That number has been reallocated. It can't be for this person, the measurements are wrong. We wouldn't have destroyed the record, my father still has business with the family." He turned to some leaves at the back. "Yes, the man we made this for was killed in the war. His family must have disposed of his clothes, but - "

An elderly man came into the room. "Everything satisfactory, sir?"

"Yes," said Bodie. "Mr Havisham is being very helpful."

The young man explained and the older man, his father, nodded.

"Yes, I remember. A fine boy. This was the last garment we made for him. I think it was his elder brother being killed that persuaded Mr Benjamin he should go too. You can take out that entry now, Michael. Old Mr Grenville died two months ago. Mr James has returned to Canada and everything is being sold. Sad when an old family finishes like this."

"Thank you for your help," said Bodie. "We appreciate it."

 

"So," said Bodie, after they had left the shop, "that coat belonged to Mr Benjamin Grenville, who was killed in the war, and whose family are either dead or left the country."

"We have a bit more," said Emily. "Part of an address in Sussex. I was always good at reading upside down."

"Emily! It would do no harm, I suppose, to inquire further. What's the next move, Sherlock? Or is it Watson? I can never remember which is which."

"I'll inquire at the War Museum of old Major Carstairs about a Grenville being killed near the end of the war. Coming from Sussex. That might be helpful. You don't remember being in Sussex, I suppose?"

"I do not," said Bodie. "I haven't been in Sussex in my life, that I remember!"

"I'll go and see Joey in the morning then. You wouldn't like to take me to see Chu Chin Chow tonight, would you?" she asked hopefully.

"You're right, I wouldn't," said Bodie. "I'm off to the club. See you at breakfast."

oOo

"Enjoy the show?" he asked over the toast and marmalade.

"Not as good as others I've seen. I'm getting worried about you, William. You are becoming incredibly stuffy. It's that club with all those boring old buffers. It's very bad for you. The things I do for you! I'd better get along and see Joey. He's bound to propose again - still thinks he's a gay young subaltern, even with one leg and gout!"

"It's your own fault, you shouldn't be such a dashed handsome woman."

"Hum," said Emily. "I'd go easy on that marmalade, it's affecting you. I'll see you here for lunch, then - if Joey isn't still chasing me round the museum!"

 

Bodie had given her up and was eating a hearty lunch when she appeared.

"I'm glad my absence didn't deter you from starting," she remarked. "Next time I have to see him, you can come with me. He's getting some very funny ideas, is Joey. It must be his age. William, try and look concerned!"

"Why?" asked Bodie. "I remember seeing you lay out Bert Smedley at that picnic when he got too friendly. You hit him with a bucket."

"I'd forgotten that," said Emily. "Nasty little twerp, wasn't he! He married that girl with the squint - Martha Henge. They had three very ugly children. 

"I've found out some more," she went on. "Lt Benjamin Grenville was killed May 1918, the son of Sir Bevis Grenville. His elder brother had been killed the previous year. The old man died two months ago. I looked up his obit. He sounded a decent old chap. Then I got in touch with a friend of mine from that part of the country. They told me the family were very well thought of. Nothing fancy. They'd lived there for generations. The old man never got over losing his two sons. His wife died some years ago. The youngest son went to Canada - he farms there. Young Ben was a promising musician."

"Too many like that," said Bodie, "their lives wasted. Well, we know more, but nothing that fits with me."

"No," said Emily. "The family lived in Sussex, your hospital was in Yorkshire. I don't see the old man giving his son's clothes away. And if he did, how did you get to Sussex?"

"I'd like to see the place," said Bodie. "You never know, it could bring something back. You have the address?"

"Yes. And there's an inn nearby where we can stay. There will be a big sale at the manor where he lived. I'd like to go to it, in case it jogs your memory - if you were down there. Sussex will be very pleasant at this time of year."

oOo

The journey was easy and the inn at Lamberhurst served excellent meals; the accommodation, although simple, was clean and comfortable. They looked around the village, then, next morning, set off for the sale.

"You know," said Bodie, as they drove along in the sunshine, "I'm enjoying this. Remember when we set out for America on that door down the river by Grandpa's? Well, I feel like I did then. Adventure ahead!"

Emily giggled. "Oh, yes. We'd have made it too, me with the atlas and compass, you with the box of biscuits. Pity we got stuck on the mud-bank."

"And got soaking wet getting ashore, and a leathering from Grandpa," said Bodie. "Emily, am I really getting that stuffy?"

"It's not your fault. I shouldn't have said that. You didn't have a chance, being groomed from the cradle to take the place over. And having to deal with that board of old fogeys before you were practically able to shave. Then the war... You know, William, this is the first time I've seen you look light-hearted for years - except when we've had a really good batch from the kiln!"

Bodie shrugged. "We should nearly be there. Have a look at the map."

"Go round the next corner and we should see the gates. Yes, there we are."

Standing along the driveway was a large collection of vans and cars.

Bodie looked round. "It is pleasant down here. The sale's brought a lot out."

"It could be interesting," said Emily. "You can often pick up bargains in these places. I like to take in an occasional country house sale. Happy hunting grounds for collectors like me."

"Bloody magpies, you mean," said Bodie. "Well, from the notice, you've got an hour to look about."

They went inside and explored the rooms.

"They're seeing everything from the Crown Derby to the dolly pegs," said Bodie. "And the wine cellar!"

"It's the usual thing. You'll probably find an old basket full of everything from reels of cotton, old scratched Gramophone records to bent forks and teapots without lids. Crown Derby?"

"I saw it first," said Bodie. "Let's get some of that brandy, too."

"Very well, but be casual about it," she warned.

"Teach your grandmother," said Bodie. 

He looked through the rest of the china but saw nothing he liked - he'd see how the prices went. There was nothing much in the pictures except - He almost missed the small, dusty, framed drawing of a girl's head. He wiped the glass carefully.

'Vicky' was pencilled faintly underneath. He smiled at the drawing. He wouldn't have been the first man to do so, he guessed. A lovely, gentle face. 

I'll take you home with me, he thought.

He gave another rub to the glass and saw the artist's initials at the side: 'R. D.' Yes, it was definitely 'R. D'. It would be an early work, but the style looked very similar. He put the picture back with the others and went over to Emily, who was happily ferreting in a large tin bath of miscellaneous objects. They walked to the back of the hall to confer.

"Seen anything?" he asked.

"A couple of good pieces of furniture. I'd like the carriage clock, but there's a London dealer here who specalises in them. I couldn't beat his price. That writing desk - I have a client who would like one. I should be able to sell it at a profit. Two pictures as well. They're not exceptional but I have people who collect that kind of thing. I'll have no problem reselling them."

Bodie nodded. "Look, I want the small drawing of a girl's head. If it comes in a lot I'll split the price with you."

"Right," said Emily. "Now I want to go and look at those books."

Even children's old toys, thought Bodie, patting a well-worn rocking horse idly. There was a dusty tea service. He took a closer look and made a note of the number.

The sale began quietly with the furniture. Then he noticed Emily arguing with a red-faced gentleman of over-bearing manner; he moved over to assist her. The man turned to him.

"Is this woman with you?"

"Yes," said Bodie, his hackles rising.

"I can't make her understand there was a private agreement between old Mr Grenville and Lord Clanmailer that we should buy the furniture without opposition. Please tell your wife to stop bidding against me."

"Keep right on, Emily, love," said Bodie. "His lordship can pay the proper price, like everyone else."

"Thank you, dear," said Emily demurely. Then she whispered, "Shall we make mincemeant of the bastard in the bidding?"

"Why not," said Bodie. He noticed the approving looks they were getting. "I don't think he or his lordship are very popular!"

Emily got the writing desk at a fair price, then pushed the bidding on the other furniture till his lordship's man finally departed in some wrath.

"Good!" said Emily. "I don't believe the old man would have made an agreement like that. He wouldn't have touched his sort with a bargepole. Ha! Here's the china now."

Bodie got his Crown Derby without too much of a struggle. "I'll keep that for myself," he remarked. "It's some pieces short but I like the pattern. Oh! The teaset's going with those candlesticks."

"The candlesticks aren't very good," said Emily in surprise.

"The doll's teaset is. I don't think they looked carefully enough."

He got it. The pictures were to be sold after lunch, so they went into a side room for tea, rock cakes and sandwiches.

"Enjoying yourself, aren't you," said Emily.

Bodie grinned. "I am now. I can see the attraction."

A couple of people nodded to them and came over to talk. They gathered Mr Fitzpatrick, Lord Clanmailer's agent, was almost as unpopular as his employer - doing him one in the eye financially had gone down very well. Emily chatted to some of the women, while Bodie was taken to a small bar in the back room, where he heard even more about Lord Clanmailer - and none of it to his credit.

"If old Sir Bevis hadn't seen us right we'd have all been out in the street now. He left us our houses and plots. All his lordship could buy was the house and land. We were damn glad to see you and your lady push the prices up. Help Mr James in Canada, that will. He wanted a fresh start, poor lad, with his brothers and Miss Vicky gone. Sale's starting again!"

Bodie then found himself possessed of an indifferent Landseer, the drawing of Vicky and a daub of cattle standing knee-deep in a loch, entitled 'In the Gloaming'. He viewed it with dislike.

"Do you think Landseer will ever come back into fashion?" he muttered to Emily.

"I hope not. Don't worry, I have a buyer for that. A rich American - he collects them."

"Em, why are you bidding for that bath-tub?"

"Things in it," she hissed. "Good, I've got it!"

"That's the lot then. Can we get it all in the car?"

They arranged for the desk to be delivered to Emily's home, then loaded the rest into the car, driving back to the inn very sedately due to the bath-tub balanced on top and insecurely secured, according to Bodie.

"You can get rid of that," he remarked. "I'm not driving all the way home with that on top."

"Yes, dear," said Emily, who had her head in a book.

 

After a good tea they examined their haul in the warm inn parlour.

"You jammy devil!" said Emily, admiring the tiny cups and saucers as they carefully dusted them. "How did you know? I never gave them a second look."

"I remembered my father showing me the pattern book and telling me the story. A continental royal lady was visiting the pottery, she liked what she saw and ordered a big tea and dinner service. My father was very taken with the child in the party, her daughter, and decided to make a present for her - a child's teaset in the same pattern as the big service. They accepted it and it went abroad. I've no idea where the main one is now, it could have been destroyed. I'll have this one set up in our museum. Mr Hanks will be delighted to see it."

"I'll make a visit to see it, too," said Emily. "Let's have a look at your drawing. Oh! She's lovely, isn't she."

"Yes. I'm sure it's Ray's work. It's very poorly framed. I'll get a new one when we get home. I wonder what happened to her. They mentioned a Miss Vicky at the sale. Grown up and moved away, I suppose."

"No," said Emily. "I was looking round the churchyard yesterday. She's buried near her mother and father. Victoria Grenville, only daughter of Sir Bevis and Lady Mary Grenville, aged 19. I made a note of it."

"Sir Bevis must have been very lonely at the end," said Bodie. "Well, what did you find in your bath-tub?"

Emily ticked off a list. "Two old cookery books, both well-used. Corkscrew, likewise. Sorry you missed the brandy. Six back copies of 'London Illustrated News' - did you know Mafeking is still holding out? Paper patterns, I'm not sure what for. A wooden thing, from the kitchen - I think. Some children's books, a couple I can resell at a profit, the others I'm keeping for me. Some nice old photograph albums. Three china plates, unmatching. Oh! And I've swopped the bath-tub with the landlady for three jars of home-made preserves." 

"Magpie," said Bodie.

"Collector, dear. I love these old photograph albums. They're very useful too, for costume and that sort of thing. Remember sailor suits? These must be the three boys."

Bodie glanced over; three small boys in identical sailor suits gazed solemnly back. He studied them with interest. "That must be Ben, then James and - ?"

"Richard," said Emily. "The eldest boy was called Richard. Look, isn't this your Vicky?" She pointed to a photograph of a young girl in a long skirt and lace-trimmed blouse, her arm round the shoulders of a small, curly-haired boy.

Bodie pulled out his glass and looked hard at the picture.

"This boy - does he come anywhere else?"

They looked through the albums. The boy appeared in a lot of the family groups, usually next to Vicky.

"They are getting older," said Emily. "School photographs. Look, here he is again with Ben; well, it looks like the middle boy. Vicky doesn't appear again. It's Ray, isn't it!"

"Yes," said Bodie. "I wasn't sure at first. All small boys look so alike, but it's Ray."

"But he's so shabby," said Emily. "The gardener's boy? No, he can't be. He wouldn't go on trips to the seaside with them. Oh yes, this one with Ben again - that's Ray all right."

The landlady came in to make up the fire.

"Mrs Johnson," said Bodie, "could you spare us a moment. Do you know who this boy is?" He pointed to the photograph.

Mrs Johnson wiped her hands and looked at the album.

"Why, that's Ray," she said. "Lord Clanmailer's youngest son. He used to spend all the time he could with the Grenville children. The manor was more home to him than Brahane, his father's place. Poor child!"

Emily looked at the photographs again. "He looks neglected. These clothes are hand-me-downs!"

"Yes, mum, he was. I was a maid up at the manor then. His father - Well, he couldn't stand the sight of the boy. We servants couldn't understand it. There were his three great louts of older sons, spoiled rotten, and little Ray with hardly a decent shirt to his back. Then one morning Miss Vicky found him in the stable yard. He'd follow horses anywhere. She thought he looked cold and hungry and brought him in for some bread and milk. She didn't believe him when he told her where he lived, but we told her it was true all right. After that, they all looked after him. He adored Miss Vicky, used to trot round after her all the time. His own mother had died, you see. Mr James was talking about it when he was over for the funeral. Ray came too. Old Mr Grenville and his wife offered to take Ray to bring him up with their own family, but the old - Well, he wouldn't hear of it."

Emily looked at the picture of Vicky. "She was a lovely girl."

"Yes, mum, she was. God rest her! Well, I must be about my work."

"He must have been quite young when he drew that," said Emily.

"You know what," said Bodie, "I'd like to go up to Brahane and beat the living daylights out of his lordship!"

"You'd probably have to stand in line," said Emily. "I'll ask around about him when I get home."

Bodie looked at the drawing again before he settled for the night.

"I'll keep an eye on your boy now for you, Vicky," he said.

oOo

Emily, calling on him some weeks later, found Vicky's portrait neatly framed on Bodie's drawing-room wall.

"Oh, that's much better. Who did you get to do it?"

"Me," said Bodie. "I was looking at it and thought 'I can do better than that!' I had a bit of trouble before I remembered I needed a saw to do the mitring. After that it was easy. If you want any pictures doing, just ask me! I must have learnt when I was away. I couldn't have learnt that from my father."

"You're on! Have you heard from Ray?"

"No, he's still in Ireland, Ethel says. I don't want to talk to him about Lamberhurst, bringing back unhappy memories for him."

"Yes," said Emily. "I've had a word with some of my society contacts. Now, bearing in mind Lord Clanmailer is a universally disliked man, the kindest description I've heard of him is that he is an unmitigated blackguard! Ray's mother was his second wife. He has three sons by his first and he's quarrelled with all of them. Ray's mother was an heiress in a small way - a lot of the land he owns now was hers. Her guardian owed Clanmailer money and she was practically handed over to him as part-payment. She was a pretty, timid girl. She ran away as soon as she could - she hated him - taking her baby with her. But she had no family to stand up for her. He went to court and got the child back. Claimed she was unfit - dredged up all sorts of things."

She paused and looked at Bodie's horrified face. "This is one of the things women's rights are all about, William!"

"The poor girl," said Bodie. "What happened to her?"

"She took an overdose. Accidental, they said. She was alone, with her character in shreds."

"The bastard!" said Bodie.

"Yes. His title is an Irish one. His tenants have sent word that if he goes back there he'll be shot. No one seems very upset at the idea."

"He doesn't belong to a club, does he?" said Bodie. "I'd like to get him blackballed!"

"That's already been done. There isn't a decent person in society who will have him over the doorstep."

"I can see why Ray never talks about his past! I must get in touch with him when he gets back from Ireland. I've got an idea I want to put to him. We have to start thinking about that big Perkins order, too. Funny thing, I went to Sussex to find my past and I seem to have found Ray's instead."

"Yes," said Emily, "I'd realised that. I wondered if you had."

oOo

It was another week before Bodie could get in touch with the studio. Cleo answered the telephone.

"Oh, Mr Bodie! Yes, Ray is back. No, he isn't well at all. I think Ireland was too damp for him. He's coughing all the time."

"I see," said Bodie. "Tell him to pack a bag. I'll be down in the morning for him."

"Good," said Cleo. "I'll tell him."

oOo

When Bodie arrived a pale, coughing Doyle glared at him.

"Look, Bodie, I'm fine and I don't need anyone to - "

"Go down to the car," said Bodie. "You are not fine at all. Have you packed a bag? No, I see you haven't." 

He began to pack one to Doyle's annoyance.

"Now, look, Bodie, you've no right - " He started to cough again.

"Ray, move! Or I'll throw you over my shoulder and carry you - and I could! The next breeze would have you over."

Doyle went down to the car.

He was silent for most of the journey, which proved to Bodie that he was definitely unwell.

Mrs Harris, the housekeeper, took one look at Doyle and suggested an early night. 

Doyle, almost out on his feet, smiled wanly and agreed.

Bodie discussed Doyle with Mrs Harris later.

"You will need extra help in the house. I could hire a nurse, but Ray is likely to be difficult if I do. More difficult, anyway."

"We should be all right," said Mrs Harris, Jemima can come in for extra days. I'll have Mary to help out in the house. But you'd better get Dr Lloyd to look at his chest, it doesn't sound right to me. And he needs feeding up."

"Yes, I was going to get the doctor to look him over."

oOo

The doctor came the next day, then made his report.

"Well, Mr Bodie, he has bronchitis. He's run down. He needs warmth, rest, careful nursing - and plenty of nourishment. I'll leave a prescription for his chest medicine."

"He has asthma," said Bodie. "He's had at least one bad attack that I know of."

"Has he! You'd better let me have his doctor's name, if you know it. He's had a bad chest for some time. Inadequate care, I suppose. Poor family. I used to see a lot of cases like his when I started out in Manchester. We'll see what good food and nursing do for him."

"Thank you," said Bodie. "I'll let you have Dr Riley's address."

oOo

After a week of sleeping, coughing and eating nourishing meals, Doyle began to perk up, and on the doctor's advice was allowed to sit in the drawing-room in the afternoons.

Bodie, arriving home one day, was met by Mrs Harris.

"He was trying to slip out into the garden - to do some sketching, he said. In this weather!"

"Don't worry, Mrs Harris," said Bodie. "I'll clip his wings for him."

Doyle was wandering about the drawing-room. "You have some good pictures," he remarked. 

"My father's. He collected a little. I prefer china."

"Bodie, I haven't thanked you for looking after me. I should."

"You can thank me by showing some sense and staying in till you're fit," said Bodie. "And stop pacing about like a caged wolf."

Doyle grinned. "Sorry. I just felt like going out. I think Mrs Harris is going to fit a ball and chain on my leg if I try it again. And I'm going to thank you whether you want me to or not!"

"Just protecting my investment," said Bodie. "Ray, I understand some artists have a patron who supports them between commissions - sees they get proper showings for their work, that kind of thing. Could I - ?"

Doyle broke in. "I don't need that kind of help!"

"Look, Ray, you had bronchitis - you damn near had pneumonia! - and a touch of malnutrition, so don't give me that rubbish. If Michaelangelo had a patron, who the hell is Raymond Doyle to turn his nose up at one! You need organising, you've no business sense. And you're the softest touch going at that studio of yours, which is why you never have any money. Now, stop arguing and think about it. There's no law that says an artist has to starve in a garret, you know, for his work to be worthwhile."

Mrs Harris announced dinner was ready.

Doyle was silent over his meal. Afterwards they went into the library, Bodie settling down to read.

"Bodie, can we talk for a moment?"

Bodie put down his book. "Would you like a brandy?"

Doyle nodded. He sipped his drink slowly.

"Bodie, that's a very generous offer, but it wouldn't work. I'd feel tied down, as though I had to keep churning stuff out. I don't like doing commercial work now, but it keeps the wolf from the door. Or painting people I dislike." He stopped for a moment.

You're going to hate me for saying this, he thought.

"Look, it's not like your pottery, just churning out cups and saucers like sausages. Art just isn't like that. You wouldn't understand. Thanks, anyway!"

Bodie looked at him. "I do not turn out cups and saucers like sausages - and don't be so bloody patronising about my work. All right, so you don't want to be prised from the happy squalor you enjoy in London! But I'm not have you sitting here implying I'm a bloody insensitive philistine. I'll take you round the place tomorrow." He opened his book again with a snap.

That's it then, thought Doyle. I had to put him off but I didn't want to hurt him.

"I'm off to bed now," he said finally. "Good night, Bodie."

"Good night."

oOo

Next morning Doyle was roused early and taken on a grand tour of the pottery.

"Well," said Bodie, "we'd better stop for lunch. There's plenty more to see after. What do you think of the place so far?"

His obvious pride in his firm and their product made Doyle reluctant to make any more derisive remarks. They wouldn't have been true anyway. The work-force was happy - he'd been shown their facilities - and he'd liked the china he'd seen.

"I'm impressed," he remarked. "You seem to have a happy factory and a good product. I heard Cleo had done some modelling for you."

"Yes, Miss Weston has done some fine pieces for us. We should have some more from her in the summer. Here's Emily now. Mr Doyle, my cousin Miss Emily Braithwaite."

"We've met before," said Emily. "You were having a mild disagreement with a client of mine, I think."

"Yes," said Doyle. "I don't know how you could stomach him."

"I doubled my fee," said Emily. "You can put up with a lot if you do that. Lunch in your office, William?"

"Yes, it's just coming up. Ah, here we are."

"My favourite dessert," said Emily. "William, you are a treasure."

"I don't know where you put it all," grumbled Bodie. "You're both built like bloody sparrows."

"Pay no attention to him," said Emily, "he's jealous."

They were halfway through the meal, when Mr Hanks came in.

"Mr Bodie, I'm afraid there's trouble at Number 3 again."

"I'll be right over. Em, show Ray the rest of the place this afternoon, will you? I could be some time."

"Certainly. We'll just have our coffee and dessert, then I'll show him round."

Doyle kept his eyes on his plate. He knew Miss Braithwaite was a very sharp lady indeed: he'd have to watch his step if she started asking questions.

He enjoyed her guided tour.

"You make some beautiful china here," he said finally. "I understand now why Bodie is so proud of the place."

"Oh, William's always loved the business. He's probably got his coat off right now with that damned kiln. I liked that portrait you did of him, you seemed to have come to know him very well." She looked at him curiously.

Doyle shrugged. "It's my business. You get to know people when you're painting them. I enjoyed the tour, thank you."

"Tell William you did. He always likes hearing the place praised. Have you known each other long, Mr Doyle?"

Doyle stumbled over his answer. Emily didn't appear to notice and went on to talk of other things. They were still talking back in the office when Bodie rejoined them. Doyle noticed with amusement that his coat did look as though it had spent some time on a dusty floor.

"Everything all right now, William?"

"Yes, but we lost some batches. I'm thinking of scrapping that one, I'll have to talk to the board. It could be cheaper in the long run. Let's be getting home. Can we give you a lift, Emily?"

"No, I have my car here today. I'll see you tomorrow."

 

They were having a drink over dinner when Bodie asked Doyle what he'd thought of the pottery and the tour.

"Very interesting. I'm sorry about the stupid remark about sausages. You're right to be so proud of your firm."

Bodie grinned. "It makes me a bit single-minded, I'm afraid. Emily complains all I talk about  
most of the time with her is china, china and more china."

Doyle laughed. "She was telling me about the times you stayed in the country with your grandparents. I hadn't realised you were only children. Is it true your grandfather could do almost everything?"

"Yes, including a fair bit of poaching!" said Bodie. "My father used to pack me off there now and again - to keep in touch, he said. I expect it was to get me from under his feet all the time. He must have been in his forties when I arrived - quite a surprise. I think he found me a bit baffling. Not many eight-year-olds get taken to hear Handel's Messiah as a birthday present. Just as well I like music. I did enjoy visiting grandfather though. I used to trot after him, wanting to do everything he did."

"That's where you learned to solder pans then," said Doyle.

"Well, yes, but how did you know?"

"Emily must have mentioned it," said Doyle vaguely. "Is it true you went off on a door to sail to America?"

"We did indeed. Down the river at grandfather's. Me in my best knickerbockers, Emily in her brown holland dress with a white apron. We wanted to look our best when we landed, you know. Got shipwrecked on the way. Our Uncle Tom had to wade out and rescue us. I couldn't sit down in comfort for a week!

"Ray, I came across an early work of yours whilst I was on holiday. Emily and I went to a sale at a country house near Lamberhurst. I collect china. She collects all sorts of things. I bought this drawing, then afterwards I found you came from that part of the country." 

Bodie went over to his desk and took the framed drawing from a drawer. 

"I reframed it. Bought it in a batch with some paintings."

Doyle took the drawing and looked at it.

"I wish I'd been better at the job when I did this. I'm glad you bought it, Bodie. I spent a lot of time with the Grenville children. Miss Vicky - well, she looked after me. Her father, the squire, Sir Bevis, paid for me to go to art school in London. His son was a music student up there. He was killed in the war. His elder brother too." Doyle was looking into the fire. "Miss Vicky died before the war. You know about me then? Small place, Lamberhurst."

"Yes. I'm sorry, Ray. I didn't mean to intrude."

"It's all right. What paintings did you get? Not that awful Landseer?"

"Not only that awful Landseer but two cows paddling in a loch!"

Doyle let out a hoot. "I'd forgotten them. There were two paintings like that. One got damp, or something, and they gave me the frame. I did a painting of their house. Mr James took it to Canada with him. My first real commission, that was."

"Emily bought some old photograph albums. You were in the group pictures," said Bodie. "And I purchased a child's teaset. Do you know anything about it? My firm made it years ago."

Doyle thought for a moment. "It was a present for Vicky. Sir Bevis was a military attaché abroad. He came home with it once. Said it was a present from a lady for his daughter. We thought it was very romantic and that he might have done something like 'The Prisoner of Zenda'. He said 'balderdash' when we asked him.

"I used to pretend he was my father too. When I was older he said to me that I couldn't live with the family as he would have liked but that as soon as I was of age to come over to the manor and he'd see I got a start. And I did."

"Good people," said Bodie. "I heard you were down for the old man's funeral."

"Yes," said Doyle. "The best. I'm feeling a bit tired. Think I'll turn in now."

"Good night, Ray."

oOo

Emily came over the next day.

"Afternoon, William. I'm on my way to Lady Kingsmill. She wants to know what I think she could do with her drawing-room. I'd say complete destruction!"

"After a free consultation, is she?"

"So she thinks. I'm going to hit her with a big charity subscription next month. Where's Ray?"

"In the garden, sketching. It's quite mild today, he should be all right."

"I heard something that may upset you. They say Lord Clanmailer disinherited Ray for leading an immoral life."

"You're joking!" said Bodie. "He's never out of the gossip columns himself. My housekeeper says he's known as the Bad Baron and all that sort of twaddle. I just asked her had she heard the name - she tells me all the juicy bits over breakfast. I wish she wouldn't, it puts me off my breakfast sometimes."

"Nasty for you," said Emily. "No, it's not like that. The rumour is that he found Ray was living with a man."

Bodie considered for a moment. "Spiteful old bastard, isn't he! Just an excuse, I suppose. So that's why Brooks... Any idea when this was?"

"Not really. About 1917, I think. It's very vague. You won't let it change your opinion of Ray, will you, William? I know it will seem strange to you, but in my line of business it happens."

"I won't throw him out into the snow, if that's what you're thinking. No, my father explained it all to me when I asked him what Oscar Wilde had done that was so awful. You know something, Em, my doctor thinks that Ray's bad health is because he comes from a poor family who couldn't afford to look after him properly, when his own father had almost as much money as I have and couldn't be bothered to take care of his own child. I'd like to take the old bastard apart."

"You're enjoying having Ray here, aren't you?" said Emily.

Bodie grinned. "Yes. It's nice to have someone here to listen when I go on in the evenings. I don't think it's very exciting for him, listening to me rambling on about glazes and kiln temperatures. Still, we'll be able to get out more soon, then he can listen to me rambling on about plants all the time. He doesn't seem to mind, just sits there working away. Mrs Harris says he's very quiet about the house, always working or reading. I found out he couldn't read very well and I've been giving him a hand. He's devouring every book in the library now, dictionary at the ready. He talks to me about the books he reads. He's getting some very definite views about things, is Ray!"

Emily grinned. "I'll bet! Oh, damn, I have to go. You can see my heart isn't in it. See you at the board meeting then. How is Ray now?"

"He seems a lot better. He's stopped coughing like a dray-horse anyway. My doctor gave him a talking to about smoking and he hasn't since. Here he is now."

"I really must go," said Emily. "Bye, Ray."

"You're looking much better," said Bodie with approval. "Had dinner yet?"

"No, I didn't feel hungry earlier."

"We'll have it together then, we'll be able to talk. Miss Weston will be at the factory tomorrow, she's bringing up those sketch books you asked for. She's finished her models for us earlier than she expected."

"Good, I'll be able to get more work done. I've wasted time these last weeks."

"Hardly your fault," said Bodie. "Don't worry, I'm not going to nag."

"You'd have a right to nag. I can't stay here much longer, Bodie."

"Why not? No, I know, you miss the mad social whirl of London! Give it another month just to see you right. The doctor is very pleased with the way you've come on."

Doyle grinned. "Mad social whirl my eye! All right, I'll see a bit of the summer up here. Phew! I'm tired. It must be all that fresh air, I'm not used to it. I'd better get to bed."

Bodie watched him go. I'll miss him, he thought to himself, but he has his own life down in London. I can see him when I'm on business, check up he's looking after himself properly. I've enjoyed his company here.

 

Doyle sat on his bed, thinking. Admit it, you want to stay with him, but it just wouldn't work, so enjoy the time you have. Don't stay and spoil everything.

oOo

They met again over breakfast.

"Bye, Ray. I'll bring those books back with me."

 

Later, at the office, Bodie extended his hand.

"Well, Miss Weston, is that satisfactory?"

Cleo looked at the cheque. "Very, Mr Bodie. I'll think over those ideas we discussed and see what I can come up with. Those sketch-books Ray wanted - with Ethel having to dash off to America on that assignment, I wasn't sure which he meant, but I think these are the right ones."

"Miss Carmichael is doing well then?" asked Bodie. "Please give her my best wishes when you see her."

"Yes, I will. We both are! We're moving to our new studio in Hampstead next month. It has a kitchen, heating, and a real bathroom, but Ethel says we mustn't let the shock of eating regularly blunt our artistic sensibilities. We are both enjoying it, anyway."

Bodie laughed. "Good for you. I'll tell Ray. You'd better leave me your new address."

"Yes," said Cleo. "Goodbye, Mr Bodie."

Bodie began to look through the sketch-books idly, then stopped and began to turn the pages slowly.

oOo

Ray was reading in the library when Bodie returned home. He looked up, smiling.

"You're home early."

Bodie placed the opened sketch-book in front of him.

"I'd like the truth now, Ray. That's me, isn't it!"

Doyle stared at the page, his face white. It was one of the drawings he'd worked from on his last portrait of Smith.

"Those are the clothes I was wearing when I came to in London," said Bodie. "Where was I going, Ray?"

"You were coming back from my dealer. You were at that hospital, as I told you. I had a cottage outside the town. I found you wandering the streets on Armistice night. You didn't want to go back - so you went home with me. Then you came to London, did odd jobs around the studio. I tried to find you when you didn't come back that day. I looked everywhere, for months and months. You remember then?"

"Yes," said Bodie, "I did. But why the hell didn't you tell me? You've known all along. I knew there was something when we first met. You lied to me! For God's sake, say something, Ray!" He grabbed him and shook him hard, then let him go. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that. I'll see you in the morning. I have some papers to look at." He left the room.

Doyle watched him go. His face crumpled a moment, then he sniffed hard and went to his room.

oOo

When Bodie awoke next morning and went downstairs, he found Doyle had left quietly during the night. He checked the station on his way to the firm but there was no sign of Ray. He wondered what to do for the best and called Emily to his office, showing her the sketch-book Doyle had left behind.

"So that's it, Em! All that time I was working around the studio, doing odd jobs. I look happy enough! But why didn't he tell me? That's what I can't understand. He knew all along where I'd been."

"William, before you say any more, I'm pretty sure the man Ray was supposed to be living with was Ben Grenville. The clothes were his, Ray wouldn't have thrown them away. The family wouldn't have given them to him, they'd be too big for Ray. There were there because Ben lived there with him. Then you came along. You must have been much of a size."

"Yes," said Bodie, "it fits. But I still don't understand - "

"Perhaps he didn't know how to tell you. He didn't know William Bodie, rich pottery manufacturer, he just knew - what's it say under that drawing? Smith. A different person entirely. He probably felt you'd be horribly embarrassed to find a man in your station had been leading a wild Bohemian existence in London - especially when he found out how stuffy you can be. It must have been a terrible shock when you walked through his door."

"Yes," said Bodie. "He did say he'd been looking for me for months - he'd been concerned about me. Ray always was a soft touch. Wild Bohemian life indeed! It looks it, doesn't it - here I am mending pans, soling boots, taking a bath by the fire - " He shut the book hurriedly.

"Having a bath?" said Emily with interest.

"Never mind!" Bodie glared at her. "Yes, I do see what you mean. What did he say at the party? One of the rich and revolting. He said something else, too." His face softened. "Good old Smith! Knew you wouldn't miss the party. I've missed you."

"He must have been fond of you," said Emily. "William - "

The telephone rang. Bodie picked it up and listened for a moment.

"Thank you, Mrs Harris, we'll be right over. Emily, the hospital has been on the phone. Ray collapsed at the station." He picked up his coat.

"I'm coming with you," said Emily.

 

The doctor came over as they reached the ward. "Mr Bodie?"

"Yes. How is he?"

"Well, we have him in an oxygen tent and he seems to be responding. He's had a heart attack. We found a letter addressed to you in his pocket. It seemed best to contact you. Do you know who his doctor is?"

"Doctor Lloyd has been attending him. Ray's had bronchitis and suffers from asthma. You did right to contact me. But he seemed so much better!"

"The attack could have been brought on by his past ill-health. You can't foresee these things, I'm afraid. He's stable now and providing he gets through the next twenty-four hours - well, we'll see."

"Is it possible for Miss Braithwaite to go in and see him?"

"Well, he's asleep and will be for some time, but it will do him no harm."

"Better you go, Em, he might be upset if he wakes and sees me."

 

Emily walked over to the bedside and spoke briefly to the nurse watching. She returned to Bodie after only a short time.

"He looks so defenceless, not like Ray at all."

"I would like a consultant to see him, Doctor," said Bodie. "Can that be arranged?"

"Yes, of course. If he has no more attacks he has a good chance. We will get in touch with you if there's any change."

"We're staying for a while," said Bodie.

They sat in the waiting-room, sipping tea a nurse had brought.

"This is my fault," said Bodie, "getting angry with him like that. I should have remembered my mother."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, William! I'm not having you sitting there reproaching yourself. Ray's going to need you calm and sensible when he comes out of this, not getting yourself worked up over things that can't be undone."

"You're right. Terrible places these, aren't they?"

 

The doctor came over to them an hour later. 

"Mr Bodie, he's awake now. We've taken him out of the tent for a moment. He knows you're here and would like to see you. Don't stay long, he's very weak."

Bodie looked down. Ray was very pale.

"Ray, that was a daft thing to do."

Doyle tried to smile. "I know, Bodie. I'm sorry, I should have - "

"No, look," Bodie took his hand gently, "don't worry about that. Put your mind to getting better. We can sort out things between us then. I'm not letting you fade out on me now, not after all my trouble!"

He felt Doyle give his hand a squeeze and sat beside him as he fell asleep.

oOo 

Doyle slowly improved over the next few days. Emily was a constant visitor.

"Hum," she announced one afternoon, "you're beginning to look much better. Mrs Harris is itching to start feeding you up again."

"Miss Braithwaite," said Doyle quietly, "you know I can't impose upon Bodie any longer."

"Stuff and nonsense," said Emily. "And for goodness' sake stop calling me Miss Braithwaite. Look, Ray, William blames himself for your attack. He's a damn fool, of course, but let him see you fit again - for his sake."

"I'm the one to blame," said Doyle. "I should have told him at first, when he walked in for his portrait. I couldn't believe it! But I thought, no, he doesn't remember you, better let it alone. I could see he'd done well. He was just going to walk out of my life again. It wouldn't have been right to tell him."

"But William likes you and began to take an interest in you, and he wouldn't give up. He's like that, stubborn as a mule when he's on to something. So the longer it went on, the less able you felt to tell him. He was more than your odd-job man, wasn't he?"

"I knew you'd be the one to guess," said Doyle slowly. "You know about Ben, too, don't you?"

"Yes, I do. When I saw that sketch-book. William isn't too perceptive in these matters. I could tell from the drawings you did how much Smith meant to you."

"I went to Ireland to get away from it. Hopeless! My father found out about Ben and said filthy things about us. I couldn't risk it happening to Bodie. I'm all wrong for him."

"No, dear. William needs someone in his life, you would suit him admirably. You rouse his protective instincts. But don't let him have too much of his own way, he has far too much of that already - and it's very bad for him."

"Emily, I don't need protecting. And besides, he doesn't remember." Doyle blushed.

"Yes," said Emily. "Ray, will his friendship be enough if he never remembers what you had together?"

Doyle nodded slowly. "Yes. That was with Smith. This is different. Even if he did remember he might not want to resume the relationship." He shrugged.

"I've tired you enough," said Emily. "Get some sleep. You could be going home soon."

oOo

A few days later Emily arrived at the hospital.

"They are letting you home tomorrow," she told Doyle. "I'm calling for you because William is away on business in America. He says to do what I tell you."

"I must have a word with him when he gets back," said Doyle. "He's getting too bossy."

"If I were you, Ray, I'd wait a bit before I tried going five rounds with William!"

"Huh!" said Doyle. "Just let him wait."

oOo

Bodie glanced through the report. "There's definitely a recession on the way, Em."

"Yes. Mr Hanks is sorting out some figures to see how we can best get through. How are you coping with Ray now? Mrs Harris told me he was improving."

"He is, the argumentative little sod. I've worked out a deal with him. I'm going to take half the proceeds from his next six sales. Independent little - "

"And will you?" said Emily, grinning.

"Of course. I'll invest it for him, too. He has no business sense whatever. He needs taking in hand," Bodie said firmly.

Emily smiled to herself.

 

When Bodie arrived home Doyle was just nodding off in the library.

"You should have gone to bed," Bodie announced.

"I wanted to speak to you." Doyle yawned.

"Another time," said Bodie. "Bed. You're asleep on your feet."

He was going to have to tell Bodie off for being so bossy, thought Doyle as he climbed the stairs, but now he just felt too tired.

oOo

By the end of the month Doyle had shown a steady improvement, even though he found standing at his easel was too much for long periods. His attempts to talk to Bodie, apart from trivialities, were met with no success: Bodie had gone taciturn, even for him. If you spoke to him, he didn't seem to be listening. Doyle began to think sadly that Bodie had considered his trust betrayed and their former closeness was gone for good.

It was very late one evening when he discovered the real reason.

He'd fallen asleep on the sofa, as he often did now, when he was disturbed by a crash - a log had fallen to the hearth. He got up and replaced it, then looked at the clock. It was 1 a.m. He looked round Bodie was dozing in a chair, the papers fallen from his hand. He always seemed to bring work home now. Strange he hadn't wakened. Doyle noticed how tired he looked and touched his arm.

Bodie awoke with a grunt, rubbing his face.

"Fell asleep," he muttered. "You too?"

"Yes," said Doyle. "Come on, you look all in."

"I had a bad day at work," said Bodie. "Go to bed now. Come on, you need sleep too."

Doyle followed him upstairs. So something was wrong, he'd never known Bodie this depressed. They would have to talk, and soon.

oOo

The weather was much warmer now, so he went out sketching the next day, well wrapped up and equipped with a pack of sandwiches and a flask of tea. He arrived home later that afternoon, pleasantly tired, to see Emily's small car in the driveway. Mrs Harris beckoned him into the kitchen.

"They're in the library, Mr Doyle. Mr Bodie said for you to eat now, he'd have something later. You look tired, you shouldn't have stayed out so long."

"I'm fine," Doyle protested. "I am hungry though, it must be all that fresh air."

"It's about time you started eating properly. If you'd lost any more weight you'd have disappeared," she said. "Here you are."

Doyle had almost finished his meal when Bodie came into the kitchen.

"Just some coffee, Mrs Harris. I'll be in the library. Miss Braithwaite is going home and I'm not hungry at the moment. I'll have a snack later." Bodie left the room.

"He's not eating properly either," said Mrs Harris gloomily, as she put the kettle on.

"Mrs Harris, I'll take it to the library for him," said Doyle. "Put a cup on for me too."

Bodie glanced up as Doyle entered the library; he was putting papers away.

Doyle poured his coffee and sat down. "Bodie, are you in trouble? I think you are. Is there any way I can help?"

Bodie took a sip of his coffee. "I didn't want to go on about the business to you. There's no sense in both of us worrying."

"Why not?" said Doyle. "I was always bending your ear with my troubles at the studio, I used to go on for hours. You'd just sit there making soothing noises. I used to feel better just talking to you. I know it can't be like that now, after I - after I lied to you. But I - " He stopped.

Bodie stared at him for a moment. "You didn't think I wasn't speaking to you because of that? Hell's teeth, Ray! No, it's the recession. The business has a lot of problems." He realised Ray was staring at him blankly. "Oh, I'll explain it to you. Get yourself a brandy and one for me."

He began to explain the current economic climate. "...then you see, most of our really expensive china goes to the United States, it always has. That's where the money is. But they're having their troubles too, so sales are down. It's the same over here. So we are getting deeper into debt all the time. And before you say anything, you're not an expense! It would be dearer to keep a canary, the amount you eat. We'll just have to tighten our belts and keep going. I had an offer from one of the bigger firms. They'd like to buy me out, but I want to keep the firm. I don't like their product anyway. I have some properties I can sell and I can take a mortgage out on this place. Emily is selling her jewellery - it's a drop in the bucket, but she wants to do it. I've got the work-force on short time. I don't want to lay anyone off if I can help it. Thank God I bought the family out, I would have had them snappning at my heels if I'd cut their dividends. They wouldn't be getting one anyway. Sorry you thought it was because of us. I understand why you didn't tell me now." He smiled. "Just bear with me while I try to keep the roof over our heads."

Doyle smiled at him. "Bodie, I'll draw on pavements for you if it will help."

"You're not leaving the sinking ship then?" said Bodie.

"Not leaving at all now. I wish I could get more for my paintings. Mr Fox says my work is going to be appreciated, but it will take time. I could do with it being appeciated now," Doyle grumbled.

Bodie looked up. "I suppose I could sell some of father's paintings. I don't know if we'd get much for them."

Doyle glanced round the room. "They're good, Bodie, but not the sort that fetches the big prices."

"I wasn't thinking of these but the peculiar ones upstairs in store. Bodies and faces all wrong, that sort of thing."

Doyle looked at him. "Your trouble is you're still stuck at The Hay Wain! Just a minute..." His mind went back to that time at the studio. "Bodie, get a couple down for me to see. The most 'peculiar' you can find. And be careful with them. Dr Lloyd said I wasn't to be excited."

Bodie went out and returned with two canvases. "I had to unwrap a couple. What do you think?"

Doyle took one look and went to the sideboard to pour them both a brandy.

"You've got that one on its side, by the way," he remarked.

"You sure?" said Bodie, looking at the painting dubiously.

"Definitely. You may thank your stars your papa was a perceptive man. I'm going to have to re-educate you. How did he come by them?"

"He was a frustrated painter. He actually took off for a year - Montmartre, the lot. I used to wonder if he had passionate affairs with his models but I never had the nerve to ask."

"It doesn't go on as much as you'd suppose," said Doyle. "The temperature in the average studio is a passion killer - that and Lily's knitting needles! I'll tell you about that again. 

Do you have Ethel's new number?" he added.

"Yes. Why? Are these worth a lot?"

"So long as there's still some money about, yes, they are. I'd better take a look at the rest afterwards. Let's get Ethel on the telephone first."

Ethel answered the telephone. "Ray, how are you? You've found a what? Yes, that's what I thought you said. Genuine?"

"Yes. Look, do you still see that man who worked at Christie's? Good. I'll bring the paintings up to town. We can stay at the studio. Hang on! Bodie says make that Brown's, he doesn't want pneumonia. Good, we'll ring you when we get there." Doyle put the telephone receiver down. "I still think we'd be all right at the studio."

"No," said Bodie, "it's too damn cold. You can stay at Brown's with the rich and revolting like me."

oOo

The next day they set off for London with three paintings, still having a mild argument on the right way up for one of them.

Ethel and Mr Gerald Stanhope joined them at their evening meal and went up to see the paintings.

"Have you put a reserve on them, Mr Bodie?" Mr Stanhope asked.

"No," said Bodie. "They've been in the family for some years. My father purchases them in Paris."

"Shall we say £----- then?"

Bodie stared at him. "Fine, "he said eventually.

"Very well. I'll take them now and they could go in our next sale on Monday. Would that be satisfactory?"

"Yes. I have some business I can attend to here. We'll stay on for the sale. I'll give you my office number, or you can contact me here," said Bodie.

After Mr Stanhope left with the paintings Doyle, Ethel and Bodie settled down to exchange news.

"You must come to our new place in Hampstead," said Ethel, "it's lovely and warm, not a bit like the old place. It has a kitchen, bathroom, the lot."

"You're getting to sound bourgois, Ethel," said Doyle. "You should watch it. I need to go over to the studio, sort my stuff out for sending north. We could do that while we're here, Bodie."

"Good idea. Just don't go throwing packing-cases about. Let me know when the heavy stuff needs lifting, I'll give you a hand."

"You're on! I'll do that in the morning while you're at the office."

"I'll come over too," said Ethel. "I've nothing on tomorrow."

oOo

The next day they went back to the old building. It seemed to be crumbling even faster now. Doyle looked round his studio and shivered.

"It never did warm up here, did it, even in summer. There's a lot to sort out, we'd better make a start."

"Ray, are you ever coming back here?" Ethel asked. "There's no one left now of the old crowd, and the building is much worse. How is it between you and Smith? I can't think of him as Mr Bodie. I know it's none of my business but I'd like things to be right between you again. He looks very tired, doesn't he."

"He has a lot of business worries," said Doyle. "That's why we are selling the paintings. No, I won't be coming back to London to live. He'd like me to stay with him and I'd like to. My doctor says no more damp studios if I want to keep on painting and living. It wouldn't be fair to Bodie to waste time being stupid. And don't look at me like that! I've been damn lucky to find him again. He doesn't remember what we had, but that's not important. We have enough to be happy. Now, let's try and sort this lot."

"Ray, I'll get the gang to help. Cleo can come over, and Fred. He has a place near here - he's been doing well lately. We'll need some tea chests. Those easels will have to go in a van. What about the furniture?"

"You must be joking. Bodie won't thank me for transporting woodworm. I don't think it's got in the easels. No, they look okay - it's probably the turps putting them off. Yes, I'd like to see Fred again anyway. A lot of the small stuff can go in the car. I'll pack all the sketch-books in the boot."

 

Bodie, being told of the plan, came along to help crate up the easels and, Doyle suspected, to make sure he didn't overdo things.

"Well, that's it," said Doyle. "There's nothing else to go. The mice are welcome to what's left. I met Dracula on the stairs while you were making tea. I nearly hid from force of habit. He tells me the place is being demolished under the slum clearance next year. Bet you he tries to re-let it until then."

Bodie passed him a mug of tea. "Are you sure you won't miss living in London, Ray?"

Doyle looked at him and smiled. "No. I never did care much for the city. I had some good times here, but it's right for a change now. No law says you can only paint well in London."

"Tell you what," said Bodie, "once we have the firm solvent again we could build a studio in the garden - with heating, the lot. Think about it."

oOo

They spent the afternoon of the sale visiting Cleo and Ethel in Hampstead, Ethel showing them round proudly, while Cleo put an enormous high tea on the table. After that Doyle retired to the sofa, complaining he was 'bloated' with food, while Cleo and Bodie happily discussed modelling.

"When business starts picking up again," Bodie was saying, "I'd like you to do some more pieces for us. Have you anything in mind at the moment?"

"Come along to the studio," said Cleo. "I have some I'd like you to see."

Bodie looked the figures over carefully. "These have got to be some of the most beautiful pieces I've seen in a long time," he remarked. "You'll have no trouble finding someone to take them on. I wish we could do it."

"No problem," said Cleo. "I can wait. I like the way you do business, Mr Bodie. Just let me know when you're ready. That's the telephone."

They hurried through to the hall. Ethel looked up.

"Mr Stanhope for you, Mr Bodie."

Bodie listened, grinning broadly. "Excellent. Thank you, Mr Stanhope." 

He turned to the others. "We got more than we expected, Ray. We'll be able to stay in business till the recession ends."

There was a chorus of approval.

"Let's have a drink," said Ethel. "Celebrate."

"No more food," said Doyle plaintively.

No one paid any attention to him.

oOo

It was on their return journey that Doyle began to be really concerned. He knew Bodie was sleeping badly, he'd heard him pacing in the adjoining bedroom, but he'd never seen him look as tired as he did now. He'd begun to cough, too.

"Like me to drive?" he said finally. "Give you a break?"

"No, I can manage. Since when did you have a licence?"

"Minor point," said Doyle. "Let me know if you change your mind."

Two hours later, only Doyle's quick grab at the wheel stopped them going off the road.

"Damn! Sorry, I must have dozed off," said Bodie. "Ray, take over, will you - and pray we don't get stopped. You do know how to drive?"

"Well, I know the mechanics of it. Ben started to teach me. Don't worry, I'll be careful. I've got my stuff in the back, haven't I! You have a sleep."

They arrived home without mishap. After a quick meal, Bodie went to bed.

oOo

On coming down to breakfast, Doyle found Bodie had already left for the factory.

"He isn't himself at all," Mr Doyle," said Mrs Harris gloomily. "He's really tired out. Miss Braithwaite is always going on at him to take a proper holiday but he just won't listen."

"I'll have to have a talk with him," said Doyle. "I know Miss Braithwaite can cope if I can get Bodie away for a while."

Doyle was sorting through the stuff from the studio when Mrs Harris called him to the telephone.

"Miss Braithwaite for you, Mr Doyle."

Doyle hurried down.

"Ray? Oh good. Now, don't worry, but William collapsed in his office this morning. Dr Lloyd would like him to go to the hospital for a check-up - in fact he's insisting on it. I'm just going to try and make William see sense."

"Thanks, Em, I'll be right over."

 

When Doyle reached the small local hospital he found Bodie was being thoroughly obstructive, which meant he must be feeling better.

Dr Lloyd called Doyle aside.

"Mr Doyle, can you help us? He's bent on discharging himself from here and getting right back to work. His blood pressure is way over what it should be, I'm pretty sure he's developing pneumonia, and he's been living on his nerves for months! Only the fact that he has the constitution of an ox has kept him on his feet this long. He needs a damned good rest - and the sooner the better."

Doyle nodded. "In a private room, is he?"

"Yes. He has to be. He's a bad influence on the other patients - encourages them to get out and away."

"I'll speak to him," Doyle said grimly.

He went into Bodie's room and started his uphill task. Bodie was unamenable to reason. Doyle was just getting to the shouting stage when he realised that Bodie had gone even paler and had stopped arguing.

"Bodie?"

"Ray, I do feel a bit strange."

Doyle called a doctor.

Dr Lloyd hurried in. "That's it! Reaction's just hit you - and you're going to feel a lot worse than this. Don't worry, Mr Doyle, now we have him here we'll soon get him sorted out, then you can take him away for a good rest."

Bodie started to protest but felt so damn awful he soon gave up.

oOo

The next day Doyle saw the doctor in charge.

"Yes. Mr Bodie has pneumonia - a mild case fortunately. But this breakdown has been coming on for some time. I gather he's been trying to work thirty hours a day. He needs to stop that. His blood pressure needs to come down. And he needs to lose weight, he's not been eating sensibly at all. I've talked to Miss Braithwaite, she says you have some influence with him. He has to change his way of life - and the sooner the better."

Doyle nodded. "Just tell me what needs to be done and I'll see to it. Can't have him cracking up now, when things are starting to go right at last."

oOo

After ten days in hospital Bodie was allowed to go home, with strict instructions not to go anywhere near the business. As he had trouble crossing the room he complied at first, then as he began to recover found that Doyle was keeping a vigilant eye on him. He protested vigorously.

"Now, look," said Doyle, "you can shout all you like, but the doctor says you've got to rest up for a week or two, then we'll see. So you are taking it easy, or you're back to the hospital."

Bodie looked very unenamoured of that prospect and began to read, muttering.

Doyle eyed him warily.

Pity I can't put a guard on him, he thought. Have the feeling the minute I turn my back he'll be off down the road. He's as bad as me and my painting. He grinned to himself. Good, he's Em now.

"Good morning, Ray. How is he?"

"Restive would be a good description," said Doyle. "Come into the kitchen. Mrs Harris is out and I can see the drive from there in case he nips out down to the factory."

"Like that, is it?" said Emily. "William always has been a bugger for work. You'll have a job keeping him away from the place."

"Yes. It's hopeless when it's so near. I've talked to the doctors and they say there's no reason why he can't go away for a holiday - before he's strong enough to really protest. Can you convince him the place won't fall apart without him?"

"I'll do my best. Where have you in mind?"

"A place I know in southern France. Good warm climate, nice quiet village. We can borrow a friend's place there. I've been on to him. We'll just have to keep an eye on the garden, which is mostly vegetables. Bodie will like that. It will do him the world of good - if I can get him there. You know, I haven't seen him really happy since our days at the studio together. Sorry, I know he has a business to run."

"Why be sorry?" said Emily. "It's true, William doesn't know how to stop working. I nearly married him myself to try and get something more into his life than the damned business. It wouldn't have worked, we're too much alike. You'd be much better for him, if he but knew it. I'd better take these reports in to him and tell him all is well."

Bodie greeted the news that his enforced absence hadn't resulted in impending bankruptcy with relief, but was very resistant to the idea of a holiday.

Doyle decided not to press the matter for the moment, and went ahead booking tickets, arranging things with Mrs Harris, and praying.

Bodie was rapidly improving now and getting very tetchy at the idea of more resting.

"Just a few days more," said Doyle finally, "then you can go out."

"Good," said Bodie. "I'll be glad to get back to work. I've wasted enough time sitting about."

"You can forget that. We are going on holiday on Friday, to the south of France," said Doyle, crossing his fingers.

"France!" said Bodie. His expression indicated he'd been asked to spend time in a lazar house. "I can't stand France. Went to Monte Carlo once, terrible place!"

"Not there," said Doyle soothingly. "The south of France. The real France. Lovely and warm, good bistro in the village. The food and wine are great. I used to go and paint there. A friend will let us use his place. But we'll have to look after his vegetable garden, which might be too much for you. I expect I can manage it. Last time I saw it it was a bit overgrown. The roses needed pruning badly."

Bodie began to waver, then stiffened. "No, I'm needed here. I haven't got time for holidays. Take me later, when things improve."

"Emily says you've been saying that for three years," said Doyle. "All you've ever had are odd days off, and you generally manage to get into the office then. Besides," he added, drawing his trump card, "the doctor says I need to take a break. This cold air with my chest..." He produced a convincing wheeze. "I suppose I could go alone, but it wouldn't be the same. No, I'll wait until you're ready to go."

Bodie looked at him with concern. "You've been doing too much. Maybe just a short break would do us both good. A week?"

"Whatever you decide," said Doyle happily. "You have an early night and I'll sort some things out here. I'm still trying to get everything tidied from the studio."

Bodie glanced at the pile of sketch-books. "You could store everything in the back sitting-room. Get the easels in there too, till we can decide the best place for your studio. I must see about that when we come back. Can I look at a book?"

Doyle passed one over. "Here. Take it to bed with you. I've got to decide what to take with me," he added, looking at the pile.

Bodie yawned. "Yes, I am tired. Night, Ray."

"Good night," said Ray vaguely, mentally wondering how much he could carry. I'll have to travel light this time, and hire a car when we get to France. I'm not having Bodie carrying loads of luggage. Still, I shouldn't need that many clothes.

 

Bodie hitched himself up in bed and glared at the bedside clock. Only 3 a.m. Too early for breakfast and he felt wide awake. Perhaps if he got up and made himself a snack. No, better not, the doctor had been very firm on eating between meals. The sooner he was fit, the sooner he could get back to work. He reached for his book. No, he'd already decided whodunit. And checked at the end. Get something from the library? No, he'd been too near the kitchen and temptation. He reached for the sketch-book.

I didn't look at this before, I was too tired. He opened the pages. Let's see. Oh, that's Ethel. I'll have to see about her doing a spread on the factory when we bring out that new advertising brochure. She'd make a good job of it. Who's that? Looks like Dracula. Yes, that's right, it is. I remember those claw-like little hands. The times we spent trying to kid him we were out. Whitewash the windows and crack on we've moved, Ray said. He used to look through our keyhole to check, then got an eyeful of Lily and nearly had a stroke! Covent Garden. I still like that one of the fruit stall. I wonder if he ever did a big painting from it. Must ask him. That was a good breakfast. Let's see: black pudding, bacon, egg, sausage - where did we have it? At the Lamb, that's right. Always got a good breakfast there. Ray had saved those tanners up - our 500th anniversary he was saying the night before.

He sat up.

His memory! Had it really come back?

He probed gently, expecting the flash to fade like before. No, there didn't seem to be gaps and he could still remember - what?

They'd got up early that morning to be at the market. Ray was doing some sketching. I went to order breakfast. Hang on a bit. He felt himself blushing.

That's why Ray didn't tell me. We were really living together! I couldn't have minded then, so no point in getting upset about it now.

Poor Ray! It must have been a shock when I walked back into his life and didn't even remember him. He'd been hurt enough with Ben getting killed, then I disappear. After we were so happy together!

He realised he was smiling. Yes, we were.

I'd better get up and tell him.

It's still very early. But I can't sleep so I might as well get up and make some tea. He might feel like a cup.

Bodie went through to the adjoining bedroom, having not only made a pot of tea but had also done several rounds of toast. It wasn't every day you got your memory back, he told himself firmly. He needed something to eat after a shock like that.

He sat on the bed and looked at Ray. A strange, warm feeling seemed to be gathering in his chest. He sniffed suddenly.

Doyle rolled over and looked at him sleepily.

"Bodie? What are you doing? It's four-thirty! A bit early for morning tea, isn't it? I'll have one anyway."

"I've remembered," said Bodie. "Having breakfast with you in the Lamb, then I went off and left you." He sniffed again.

Doyle smiled. "You didn't know you'd left me. It wasn't your fault. And if you're going to cry over me, go back to your own bed to do it! Anyway, you couldn't have stayed with me, you had the pottery to sort out. How much have you remembered?"

"Everything, I think. About us, too. But I - "

"No good sitting there getting cold," said Doyle. "Get in with me and pass some of that toast. Don't worry about us. Just get used to remembering. Um. Thanks. It's easier to talk this way. Did you bring any marmalade? Pity."

"I'm glad we're getting away for a bit, Ray."

"Thank goodness for that. I was afraid I'd have to throw you over my shoulder and carry you onto the boat."

"That I would have liked to see," said Bodie. "Hell, I'm getting sleepy now. Mind if I stay?"

"Go ahead."

After a few moments Bodie was sound asleep.

Doyle lay awake. 

Take it easy now, he told himself. Let him get sorted out. He might not want to start that relationship over again. Glad he's remembered though. Get him fit first. He yawned. It was a good thing they were packed. It would be a relief to get away, I'm tired too. He cuddled up to Bodie and was asleep almost at once.

oOo

Next morning Bodie was very quiet. Doyle assumed he was working through his memories and left him carefully alone. 

Emily arrived for a last-minute business conference.

"He's got his memory back," said Doyle.

"Good!" said Emily. "And?"

"I'm not sure he's happy about it," said Doyle.

"Oh, give over," said Emily. "Just the shock of it, I expect. Why, are you worried he might not want you around now?"

"No. I just don't want him feeling awkward with me."

"Huh! Hasn't it occurred to you that he might feel the same? It's a good thing you're going away, it will give you some time together. You're made for each other. William would be a fool to let you go, and he's never been that. Now, I'd better see him with these figures. It's nothing to worry him, we are managing well with the extra money. If all goes well, we should be out of trouble by the year's end."

oOo

"Ray," said Bodie, as they sorted out their luggage for the station taxi, "how is it I have three big cases and you have a bag of canvases, a holdall and a large carrier bag? Are you sure you have everything you need?"

Doyle looked up. He was just wedging in another two tubes of oil paint.

"Oh, yes, I should have all the materials I need. I can always take a trip into town if I run out."

Bodie sighed and looked into the bags. "Do you think one shirt on and one in the bag is enough? And no socks?"

"Only need one on and one in the wash, don't I? And if it's warm enough I can leave off pretty well everything," said Doyle cheerfully. "I don't need socks with sandals. People worry too much about clothes. Ethel says all you really need is a spare pair of knickers."

"You don't, that's for certain," said Bodie, ignoring Ethel's travel hint. "Mind, you could be right. Take a look through my cases and see what I don't need. I'm so used to travelling when I'm on business."

Doyle went through Bodie's luggage and happily threw out two case loads - to Bodie's horror.

"That's better," said Doyle. "You won't need all that. You can always pick up a cheap shirt in the village. Go native, it won't kill you!"

oOo

Their journey to France was uneventful. Once over the Channel even Bodie stopped complaining after he had eaten his first, excellent meal. After an argument they agreed to share the driving and progressed happily.

"According to Dornford Yates," said Doyle, "we should run across a gang of international crooks, or emissaries of a foreign power, on the way. Or a lovely women will fall into your arms, demanding protection from her vicious, depraved husband - a mad Russian Grand Duke!"

"Eh?" said Bodie, who was negotiating a corner. "I wish they drove on the proper side here. Have you been borrowing books from Emily again? You'll get softening of the brain reading that stuff. Mind you, I did want to be Rudolph Rassendyll when I was young. I could see me swimming the moat - the lot."

"I haven't read that one," said Doyle. "Go on, tell me the story. Keep me awake."

"Ray... Oh, very well."

And so they journeyed on.

 

"Not far now," said Doyle. "We should get there by nightfall tomorrow."

"It's getting dark now," said Bodie. "Do you know place in the town we're coming to for us to stay?"

"Yes. The hotel in the main street. Ben and I passed through here once. We didn't stay there, we were camping. Had a meal there though - not bad at all. I didn't realise your French was so good. Did you learn it here while you were in the army?"

"No. It's the result of an expensive education. We had - well, still have - an interest in a small china firm in the south. Papa had ideas about expanding it. He wanted me to do business in France, anyway. We might go and take a look at it while we're here. Is this the place?"

"Yes. Bodie, if there are no singles we could get stuck with a double bed..."

 

Bodie poked the mattress suspiciously, then went to take a look at the bathroom.

"I don't think much of French plumbing," he said with distaste, on his return. "Still, we've got hot water in the taps. Well, fairly hot."

"Don't you go hogging it all," said Doyle. "I need a good wash too."

By the time he'd finished his wash, Bodie had climbed into bed and was fast asleep. Doyle swore, and settled for his usual battle with his insomnia.

oOo

It was almost dark when they finally reached their destination the next day.

"Here's the village," said Doyle. "You'd better go slowly, there's often a suicidal duck about. That's the bistro. Stop here so we can pick up some wine. We'd better get a loaf at the bakers, too."

"Better still, we can eat here," said Bodie. "It's save cooking when we get in. I'm hungry."

 

Bodie cleared his plate and beamed at Doyle. "You were right, it's good. I'm going to enjoy coming here. You picked up a loaf?"

"Yes. Come on. It's just up the hill to the left. Round that corner. I think we can get the car up to the house. Yes. Good. Home!"

"'Bout time," said Bodie, stretching. "Um, not bad. It smells fresh."

"The key should be under there. Yes, it is. Lady from the village who looks after the place will do some washing for us, if we need it. Come on, in you go."

Bodie looked round. It was clean and looked comfortable. A cheese lay on the table, with a note saying there were eggs in the larder. He looked at the stove; there was a fire laid. He lit it and put on the coffee pot.

Ray came in with the luggage. "That's the lot. Making yourself at home? The garden's out that way, if you like to take a look before the light goes completely. I'll see to supper. Bread and cheese all right?"

"Yes," said Bodie, disappearing in the direction of the garden.

Doyle grinned and set the table, lighting the lamp.

"Hey," he called, "come and get it. And don't bring any of those damned big moths in with you!"

Bodie came back in. "I like the look of the garden. Plenty of vegetables ready for picking. Is it all right if we use them?"

"Yes. They'd go to waste otherwise. The family are all in Paris at the moment. They come here to paint off and on. I met Bernard in London when I was at college. He was a friend of Ben's, too. We kept in touch. There's two beds, so you've got a choice."

Bodie yawned again. "All this fresh air is making me sleepy," he complained.

"Come on then. Oh, if you'd like a bath it's a case of a tub in front of the fire - like Yorkshire."

"I'd rather wait till I feel stronger," said Bodie. "Where are you sleeping?"

"The small bedroom. You need more room than I do." Doyle dodged hurriedly.

"I'll feel much better soon," Bodie warned him. 

Then, to Doyle's annoyance, he fell into bed, blew out his candle and was asleep in five minutes flat.

I wish I knew how he does it, Doyle mused, while I lie here counting bloody sheep! Anyway, I think he's looking better...

oOo

Two days later Bodie wandered up the garden, stopping to inspect plants and enjoy the warm, scented air. He looked to where Doyle was painting, then walked over to him.

"Dinner will be ready soon," he remarked. "How's it coming on? Um, I like that!"

"I've just about finished, the light's changing. Mind that, it's still very wet. I thought I could smell something drifting up. What is it?"

"Beef, with vegetables and a big glass of wine in the sauce. Cheese and apple to follow, and more wine, of course."

"Good. I'm glad you're doing the cooking. You wouldn't eat like this with me cooking," said Doyle, still examining his work.

"I know. That's why I'm doing it."

"Can tell you're feeling better. For someone who had to be dragged across the Channel, you're making yourself right at home."

"I thought it would be like Monte," said Bodie. "I like it here. I'm going to take cuttings of all the roses. Wrapped in flannel they should travel all right. I'd like to have them growing in my garden at home."

They began their meal.

"This wine's good," said Doyle. "We'd better get another couple of bottles."

"I have. Coming down to the village for a walk later on?"

"Ending up at the bistro for a couple of brandies? Yes, you're on."

 

Doyle was feeling very mellow when they started their walk back.

"Never thought I'd get you out of that damned business suit. I'll have to sketch you like this before you get back into that awful black cocoon."

Bodie grinned and looked down at his blue French working shirt. "I had to get this, I ripped the last shirt I had - thanks to you leaving most of them at home - on those briars. It seemed sensible to get the pants as well. Better for gardening. You're bloody plastered, you know that?"

"Yes," said Doyle. "Think I could fly - on top of the world. Terrific! Only one thing more and I'd be - "

"What's that then?" asked Bodie, slinging an arm around his shoulders.

Doyle stopped suddenly. "Forgotten. Never mind."

It was almost dark when they reached the cottage. The inevitable moth flew in with them. Bodie looked at it with respect.

"Look at that wing-span. It'll fly off with the cheese if I don't shift him." He caught the fluttering creature gently and evicted it.

"I don't know how you can touch them," said Doyle. "They give me the shudders."

"Doesn't bother me. Sort of furry. Like some coffee?"

"Yes." Doyle looked out the small window. "Moon's coming up."

Bodie walked over and stood behind him, then, sliding an arm round his waist, began to muzzle his ear tentatively.

"Enjoying yourself," said Doyle. "Even better further over, you know."

"Waiting for an invitation," said Bodie, "then I thought I'd take advantage of you while you were feeling good."

"Daft ha'p'orth," said Doyle. "Done everything but hang out flags, I have. Why didn't you try earlier?"

"I wasn't sure I'd be welcome, but tonight seemed right."

"Thank goodness," said Doyle. "I was beginning to worry - and if you go to sleep on me tonight, I'll crown you."

oOo

When Doyle opened his eyes it was bright morning. Bodie was looking at him, a delighted grin on his face. He passed him a cup of coffee.

"Don't say it. I fell asleep on you, didn't I?" said Doyle mournfully.

"Not right away," said Bodie soothingly. "It was a bit discouraging though. I felt I couldn't be doing very well."

"If you're fishing for compliments," said Doyle," you can forget it."

"Good thing you're nice and rested," said Bodie. "After breakfast you can go to the village and get us some food in. I've done a list ready."

"Hey!" Doyle protestd, "I've got work to do. You do the marketing much better than I do."

"Excuses, excuses," said Bodie briskly. "You go, or I don't cook. And this time poke the bread before you buy it. That last loaf you bought was only fit to be a doorstop."

oOo

Bodie drained his glass and kicked off his sandals, wriggling his toes happily.

"Good idea of yours, to take a meal out," he remarked. "I haven't had a picnic in years."

Doyle looked over from his sketching with amusement. "I can't believe it," he remarked. "Can this be the impeccable Mr Bodie? Scruffy, unshaven, in a working shirt and corduroys! What would your board say?"

Bodie suggested what the board could do with themselves, and opened another bottle of wine.

"You'd better make the most of it," he said, after a pause to refill his glass. "Only another week to go. I'm thinking we could have a place of our own here. Be ideal in winter for your chest - and a break in the summer. What do you think about it? By the way, you've put on some weight at last, and you need a haircut," he added critically.

"Your damned cooking's to blame. Where are you off to now?"

"Just the top of the hill. Sun's starting to go down."

Doyle walked with him. "I'll paint that one day. We'll have to start back, it gets dark soon here."

They began to walk slowly home.

"I've always liked this part of the country," said Doyle. "I like it even more now, it's given me Smith back! I knew he was somewhere hidden under your dark suit, but I was afraid he'd never get out again."

"You liked him a lot, didn't you," said Bodie. "Do you find William Bodie a bit of a disappointment? You had a different life with Smith, mine must seem very staid to you - and I'm no great shakes as a lover."

Doyle stopped and looked at him. "I knew something was bothering you. Now listen! Smith and William Bodie are the same person. Stupid of me to say it that way. What bloody chance did you ever have to be light-hearted? All Smith had to worry about was me and whether we could find the rent money. And he took that pretty seriously as I remember. Well, one of us had to. I love both of you and I'm going to see you get more out of life than your damned pots, as Emily calls them. As for the other, I've no complaint. It takes me all my time to keep up with you, so stop talking rubbish!"

 

"I don't know about you," said Doyle, much later that night, "but I found that very satisfactory. Like me to get up and make us some coffee?"

"Yes," said Bodie. "You'll have that stuff swilling out of your ears if you're not careful. It must be the practice I'm getting. I always like to do things well."

"Smug, that's what you are," said Doyle. "And I haven't noticed you passing up any cups." He brought the coffee over. "Bodie, I can't promise to be around when you need glasses and a bath chair, you know."

"I'm going to see you make it," said Bodie confidently. "I rather like the idea of two doddering old wrecks down here, propping up the bistro and discussing their rheumatism."

"Now there's a romantic idea to conjure with," said Doyle. "I'll do my best to oblige you. Where did you say you were going tomorrow?"

"Thought I'd visit that factory we have an interest in. Just take a look at it. I've been playing around with an idea but I want to check it out first."

"I'll finish some things off here then. I'll pick some plums too, I must call on Foxy when we get back and leave some paintings with him."

oOo

Bodie was back late, looking rather pleased with himself and carrying several large packages.

"I've picked up some of that good white French cooking ware for Emily," he remarked, "and a set for Ethel and Cleo - as a house-warming present."

"Good idea," said Doyle. "Enjoyed yourself, have you? You've got a definite gleam in your eye - unless it's me?"

"No, more important business! Something for our future. I'm going to see if the board will take a large share in the French firm here, then I can spend time here in the winter months with you. We could look round for a good, sound house. What do you think?"

Doyle looked at him suspiciously. "This isn't a way you've found to work yourself into the ground again, only in France? Not planning to take over the French china industry as well, are you?"

"No. It's just a small firm, making a good traditional product. They need modernising but that's about it. Though I do have some ideas for improvements. Go on, Ray, say yes!"

"Um - " said Doyle, "it's the 'some ideas' bit that has me worried. But you wouldn't be happy without something to manage - even on holiday. And yes, I like the idea of being able to spend more time here."

"Good," said Bodie. "That's settled then. Never thought I'd resent the idea of having to go at the end of the week, but we'll be back. Like to come for a walk before supper?"

"Creature of habit, you are," said Doyle. "Come on. Do you think Em might like a couple of bottles of that French fruit brandy they sell at the bistro?"

"I'm sure she would. Pick up a couple for us at the same time."

oOo

Bodie, muttering angrily, was packing the luggage into the car as Doyle came back up from the village, equally laden.

"Ray, where did all this come from?"

Doyle sat down to rest. "Us. If you will take half the garden in cuttings, a couple of big cheeses, the crockery, eight paintings of mine and God knows how many bottles of wine... Here, I've bought you some of those croissants with chocolate in. A last indulgence before you go on the wagon again."

Bodie beamed at him. "Too good for me, you are," he remarked happily.

"Yes, I know. Can we get any more in? The lady at the bistro gave me some preserves. They look good."

"I can always leave you behind," said Bodie. "Yes, stick them on the back seat. That's about it. Just tidying up the house, then we can start."

 

They had been driving for some hours in silence when Bodie remarked. "I never did have my romantic adventure. No lovely women falling into my arms, imploring my protection. You said that would happen."

Ray, who had been trying to read the map, looked up. "I can't understand this thirst you have for romantic adventure. You've got me, be satisfied. Handsome, romantic artists - there's not many of us about. Not good painters too."

"I haven't got one in this car either," said Bodie. "Just a short, plain one with a bad cough. Have you got that map upside down?"

"Yeah, I must have. That's better. The turn off is just here. I've just thought of something - how are we getting this lot on the boat?"

oOo

Emily looked at her presents with approval.

"Very nice indeed. That will look well on my table. The French are so good at this kind of thing. Thank you both! Get some glasses out, Ray, I want to propose a toast." She poured three glasses of wine. "My very good wishes to both of you. About time you sorted yourselves out."

"We were a bit slow," Bodie agreed, "but it's best to be sure in these matters."

Emily sighed. "Soul of romance as usual. Still, if you can stand him, Ray."

"I wouldn't have him any different," said Doyle.

"Well, you both look very well, especially you, William. I kept telling you to take a proper holiday, didn't I? Now, here are the latest reports, I knew you would want to see them. Business is improving slowly. Mr Hanks estimates that in another six months, if all goes well, cautious optimism is in order."

"Sounds like Sam. He'd still be saying that if we were nearly on top, but this does look much better."

oOo

Some weeks later Bodie was just ready to leave his office when his secretary appeared.

"A Mr Grenville is asking to see you, sir."

"Grenville? Send him in."

A youngish man entered; he looked vaguely familiar.

"Mr Bodie, please excuse this intrusion, but I'm trying to trace a family friends, a Mr Raymond Doyle. I'm here on a short visit from Canada."

"Mr James Grenville, is it?" said Bodie.

"Yes, but how did you - ?"

"It's a long story. Better come with me if you want to see Mr Doyle. He's staying at my home. He'll be delighted to see you."

As they drove home Bodie learned Mr Grenville was only in England for a week longer.

"I've been clearing up the last details of the family estate. I visited some relatives in Scotland, then I wanted to see Ray before I go home. They told me at his studio he had left, gone north. They mentioned your name and said you had a pottery. So I decided to try and find him if possible."

"Here we are," said Bodie. "Mrs Harris! One more for dinner."

"Two, sir. Miss Braithwaite telephoned and said she'd be over. I've made some of that dessert she likes. She says you'll want to hear about the exhibition firsthand, and she could do with a good meal."

"Good. Where's Ray?"

"In the library, sir."

They went through.

"Ray, we have a visitor."

"James!" Doyle got up, smiling, and they both began to talk at once. 

Bodie grinned and left them to exhange news.

The dinner was a great success with Mr Grenville and Doyle happily going over memories, while Bodie and Emily talked business with enthusiasm. After dinner Bodie invited Mr Grenville to stay.

"You and Ray must have a lot to catch up on, and there's plenty of room here. What do you say?"

"Well, I should like to. I don't expect to be back in England again, but - "

"That's settled then," said Bodie.

oOo

It was the night before Mr Grenville was due to leave. Doyle had retired early, after a very busy day. Bodie and Grenville were sitting by the fire, talking.

"I must thank you for your hospitality, Mr Bodie, and your kindness to Ray. He's had a lot of unhappiness in his life. I'm pleased to see things are so much better for him now."

"He looked after me when I needed help," said Bodie. "We get on well together. I keep his feet on the ground and he sees to it that I don't think or talk about china clay twenty-four hours a day. I know something of Ray's early life and learnt more at your family auction, as I told you. I'm sorry, I should have offered you Vickie's portrait, if you would like it?"

James smiled. "No, you shouldn't, she belongs here. It's right you should have it here with Ray. She'd be so happy the way he's turned out."

"You know," said Bodie, "I just can't understand that father of his, neglecting his own child like that."

"I didn't at first, either," said James. "It's quite simple really. My father found out and told me. Ray's mother was heiress to a large amount of land, which should have gone to him on his twenty-first birthday. If he'd been left with his mother and she'd found someone to look after his rights, well - the old villain would have had to hand it over, or pay compensation. So he had the courts hand Ray over to him, then just left him to the care of the servants. He never paid any attention to him - probably hoped he'd get carried off by some childish ailment. He damn near did, too! Collapsed in our yard one day. He had bronchitis and pleurisy! My mother nursed him while my father stood guard like a lion over a sick cub. Lord Clanmailer threatened him with the police. My father suggested he'd have him reported for child neglect, then let it be known through the village that Ray was under his protection, so people would look out for him. That annoyed his lordship no end - he liked to see himself as lord of the manor. Huh! What a Johnny-come-lately. My father counted with the village. 

"When he realised the situation when Ray was of age he suggested Ray take out an action against his lordship. Ray did, but stopped it. I never knew why. Lord Clanmailer wanted him to go to a relative in Australia, said he couldn't afford to keep him about the place - and him sitting on Ray's property! My father told Ray to come over to our place as soon as he could, then sent him to study in London with Ben. My mother had started him drawing - she was a good amateur artist herself.

"I wish they'd lived to see how well he's turned out. You've heard about Lord Clanmailer then?"

"Too damn much," said Bodie. "If I hear he's broken his neck out hunting. I won't shed any tears. Think I'll have a word with my lawyers. I don't see why he should get away with Ray's property. We'd better call it a night. You've got a long journey ahead."

"Yes. I'm glad we met, Mr Bodie. I can see how settled Ray is now. But, one thing - see that he keeps in touch. When my Victoria is older I'd like Ray to paint her portrait."

"I'll see he does," said Bodie.

oOo

Bodie's lawyer looked up from the papers.

"There is no doubt about it, Mr Bodie. That part of the estate - or compensation - should have been paid to Mr Doyle when he came of age. Does he now wish to commence proceedings against Lord Clanmailer?"

"I'm acting on his behalf," said Bodie, "he hasn't the stomach for legal dogfights. See how the land lies, would you, before I talk to him about it."

oOo

A month later Bodie returned to see his lawyer.

"Well, Mr Bodie, we have now heard from Lord Clanmailer's solicitors. They have out sympathy! They suggest a compromise could be reached. They are aware, of course, that their client's case is very shaky indeed. Unfortunately, his lordship decided to make his feelings on the matter public."

He paused, and held up a letter.

"This has to be one of the most offensive documents I have ever read. I'm surprised his lordship hasn't found himself in court before if this is usual style of correspondence. It is composed of threats, remarks of an insulting nature - the least of which is that he deplores you being 'in trade'. A very unpleasant person indeed. He can make trouble for you. Do you wish to continue?"

"Yes, but I'll have to speak to Mr Doyle first. I don't see why the old bastard should get away with it!"

oOo

"And what did Ray saw when you told him?" asked Emily.

"He was bloody furious," said Bodie glumly. "It was our first big row. Said I should mind my own business. That I had no call to interfere in his affairs and that I should stop procedings at once. So I left him to simmer down. I couldn't tell him I wanted him to have an income of his own to make him feel independent. He doesn't make enough from his paintings to afford my way of life. He barely makes enough to afford anything! I'm afraid he'll come to resent my always paying the bills."

"What is the real reason he doesn't want you to go on?"

"Same reason he stopped the action before - his father's threat to make his relationship with Ben Grenville public knowledge. That stopped Ray then - he wouldn't hurt Ben or his family. I told him that the only family I have is him and 'Northern Potter's Love Nest' wouldn't make much of a splash in the News of the World!" Bodie grinned suddenly. "It would give Uncle James in Bognor a nasty turn, wouldn't it!"

"William! Not that I wouldn't like to see Frances's crabby face when she saw it, but you know the law on such things. What are you going to do? You're not still at odds with Ray?"

"No. When he calmed down and explained I told him I didn't give a damn what his father said about me. He just looked at me and said 'But I do.' So I promised him I'd think long and hard about it, then tell him before I did anything."

The phone rang.

"Mr Bodie, your lawyer is on the phone for you."

He listened for a while.

"I''ll see you on Tuesday then. Thank you for calling."

He was silent for a moment. "Em, Lord Clanmailer has died from a sudden heart attack. His eldest son is abroad. We will wait and see what his reaction to the claim is. I'd better tell Ray about his father, though neither of us are going to shed any tears!"

oOo

The lawyer passed the paper over.

"This is the suggsted compensation, Mr Bodie. It seems the new Lord Clanmailer, genuinely, I think, had no idea Mr Doyle had any caim on the estate. He always imagined, from the little he saw of him, that he was an - er - byblow belonging to one of the servants. He and his brothers were away at school or university when their father remarried. As you know, his second wife left him as soon as she could, intending never to return. Then the court case deprived her of her child and she died a short time afterwards.

"The present Lord Clanmailer, who was not on good terms with his father - hardly anyone seems to have been - had heard only rumours of her sad life. I gather his own mother had much to endure in her marriage.

"Once he heard the full story, he wished to make some restitution. He made it his business to search for anything that could have belonged to Mr Doyle's mother which her son might wish to have. He traced some paintings said to have been by her father and given to a former housekeeper. He purchased them back and is sending them to you. He was sure her son would wish to have them. One is of the lady as a young girl."

"Yes," said Bodie, "I know Ray will be delighted to have them. I don't think he has any idea what his mother looked like. It's a very kind action." He looked at the proposed settlement.

"Yes, that should be satisfactory. I'm sure Ray will accept."

oOo

Ray sat gazing at the painting.

"He was very good, you know, Bodie. I wondered where I'd got it from. She's very pretty, isn't she!"

"Pretty!" said Bodie, "She's beautiful." And I can see where you get your eyes from, he added to himself. "Well, are you going to accept George's offer?"

"Oh, that. Yes. I must write and thank him for the paintings. Wish I'd known my grandfather. Invest the money in the firm, will you?"

"I'll invest some of it. The rest will go into good stock to give you a decent income - and some you are going to spend! Start planning that studio of yours, with plenty of light and heating. We'll have to decide where we are going to put it. The garden needs extending anyway. I'm thinking of buying the bottom field."

oOo

Doyle looked across the room. Bodie was muttering to himself and looking through pattern books, then making sketches and muttering some more.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"You can come and give me a hand. I've picked out a dinner and tea service for Mr James and his wife. Then I thought we should give a child's tea set to little Miss Victoria. But I don't think the design on their service is quite right for it, so I'm trying to find another. I need you to make one up for me."

Doyle walked over and gave him a quick hug. "I always said you were a romantic!"

"You can stop that right now," said Bodie. "I need to get some work done."

"All right. What about a monogram? She's got the name of a queen, after all. What shape were you thinking of?"

Bodie showed him the sketch.

"Yeah, I should be able to do something with that. Coat of arms? No, too big. Nothing too fussy. Let me think..."

Bodie sat back and looked at him, smiling. "I knew I didn't love you just for your pretty face!"

"Huh! You can stop the soft soap," said Doyle, smiling back.

 

THE END


End file.
